


My Escape

by rawrkinjd



Series: If These Scars Could Speak [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Modern Era, Neurodivergent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, UK Education System, Young Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 95,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24744082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Lambert and Aiden begin building their lives together, while Eskel, Geralt and Jaskier navigate the intensity of the feelings they share.Or: recovery is a long and winding road, and sometimes you can hit snags along the way.Follow up to "If These Scars Could Speak"; title is taken from "My Escape" by Ravenscode."Show Creator's Style" recommended due to CSS/HTML Coding.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: If These Scars Could Speak [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1789282
Comments: 1284
Kudos: 579
Collections: The Modern Witcher AU Collection





	1. My Dark Disquiet

* * *

Aiden knew Lambert was intelligent. You didn’t gain two engineering qualifications if you were dim. But as the months went on and they fell into the rhythms of domestic life, Aiden realised he hadn’t truly appreciated _how_ intelligent, because Lambert disguised it behind goofball antics and copious amounts of swearing. The ideation began as they sprawled on the sofa watching QI reruns after a particularly long week at work. Lambert had caved to a takeaway - a rarity, he disliked the grease - and was idly running a hand up and down Aiden’s shin when Stephen Fry began to discuss the link between profanity and intelligence. Intelligent people swore _more._ Aiden smirked, “I always knew you were a genius.” 

A quiet huff, “Yeah, regular fucking Einstein.” And Lambert leaned forward to begin clearing up the food cartons, before heading off to bed. In fact, _every time_ Aiden complimented his cleverness, he seemed to _run off_ or change the subject at the very least. It was clearly something he was _embarrassed_ by, and yet he sat down with Mason every Thursday and they did his maths, science and eventually, begrudgingly, his French homework too. Aiden couldn’t count the number of times he’d come home to find a science experiment sprawled out on the dining room table because Lambert had taken issue with the simplicity of a worksheet. The demonstration of electromagnetism to Mason using all the magnets from the fridge door, the components of the toaster and Aiden’s laptop charger had been a low point. They’d _almost_ had their first big argument.

Furthermore, Lambert was putting off looking at engineering positions. He seemed to prefer the low paid obscurity of the Autocentre. And _that_ was a problem. Not because of the money - _definitely_ not the issue - but because Lambert thought that was _all_ he could possibly aspire to now that he’d been _discarded_ by the military. That needed to change. Like any good lawyer, Aiden decided to conduct some research before he made his case. 

He rang Eskel.

“Afternoon, Eskel. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem. You’ve just saved me from a particularly horrific examination of Keats.”

Aiden heard the pen hit the desk. He must still be at work. “I have a question about Lambert.”

“Mmhm.” That was a _pensive_ murmur.

“Nothing bad,” Aiden leaned back in his chair and swivelled. The view of London below was truly majestic from his office window. “While you served together, he was your demolitions expert, correct?”

“Yes. A very good one.” 

“Exactly _how_ good?”

“Uhh, the best. He was sold to us as Q with a shitty attitude. I’ve seen him run complex calculations in his head, in the middle of a live fire fight, with grenades detonating around him.” _Of course that was many years ago now,_ but that didn’t need to be said.

“Q? Oh, right. Yes,” Aiden considered his nails. “Why is he embarrassed by it?”

“You know he was in care,” Eskel paused. This really wasn’t a conversation _he_ should be having, but he also knew how _difficult_ Lambert was when trying to pry personal information out of him, and Aiden was having to do it without alcohol. “The nerdy kids didn’t do so well. It was far easier for him to hide it, or use it to jack cars for people older than him. And he’s horrific at accepting he has positive attributes, but _that_ one goes against his entire concept of self as a worthless piece of shit.”

“Huh,” Aiden tilted his head back when his secretary popped his head round the door and waved him away with three fingers; he’d be out in a few minutes. “Yes. I’m aware.”

"He’s taking your technology apart, isn’t he?”

“Oh, there isn’t a single mechanical or electrical item on my property that he hasn’t taken apart and put back together.” Aiden sighed. _Including his bloody car._ “His current project is wiring an alarm into my Triumph.” Another pause, and he began gathering papers on his desk with his free hand. “How’s Jaskier?”

“Good. He’s passed the first two stages of the interview process.”

“Fantastic news! Well, I better put down the phone before our wire tappers pick up on our conversation then.”

Eskel huffed in wry amusement. “Talk to you later, Aiden.” The line went dead.

The train home was delayed and Aiden sat in London Liverpool Street with a pint of beer in front of him and phone in hand. Lambert would be home by now. Probably in the shower. _Hopefully._ He sent a text.

Kitten  
  
**Today** 7:05 PM   
What're you doing?  
  


They didn’t do it as often anymore. Now that they lived in the same home, it was important to have their own space, thus making their time together even more precious. So Aiden only ever did it when he needed his day brightened, or if he was abroad for work. Lambert understood this change in dynamic. Barely a minute later, a picture popped up of Virtute. She was watching Lambert intently; he'd been exercising her with the feather on a stick.

Kitten  
  
  
One of my favourite things.  
  
ETA?  
  
Late. Train delayed. Don't stay up.   
  
Network Rail have some of the best paid engineers and they can’t even make the fucking trains run on time.  
  
They need a professional to show them how it's done. Put in an application.   
  
See you when you get home.  
  


Aiden sighed and slid his phone away. He always knew that Lambert’s self-esteem was going to be the main project of their relationship. Not that he’d ever _used_ the word ‘project’. Lambert would _freak._ Aiden worried that it was beyond his expertise. Was he what Lambert needed? Was he _good_ enough?

_That didn’t stop him from trying._

Complimenting him on his work with the bike, and _every_ mechanical project he undertook. Marvelling at his experiments with Mason. Even changing their viewing habits to scientific documentaries that Aiden didn’t understand, so that Lambert was forced to elucidate; Aiden listened with big doe-eyes as Lambert explained everything from neutron stars to centrifugal force to the way a steam engine worked. However the _problem_ with this tactic was its flagrancy _._ “Aiden, we should just watch something you’ll enjoy.” Lambert reached for the remote, but Aiden plucked it out of his grasp.

“I’m enjoying the science lessons. I love it when you show off your geeky self.”

A furrowed brow, followed by a vague grimace. “Right,” a pause, “want a drink?”

“No. I want you to start accepting my compliments. You give them to me readily enough,” Aiden threw his legs over Lambert’s lap as he tried to stand. “You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, yet you’re clearly ashamed of it.”

“I just know shit. Read Wikipedia.”

“Not hearing it. Eskel said you were ‘Q with a shitty attitude’.”

Lambert growled. “Well, he’s fifty percent there. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Why? You’re hiding away in that Autocentre, run off every time I remark on it, and--.”

And then something _unusual_ happened. Lambert lost his temper. _With_ Aiden. He shoved Aiden’s legs off his lap and stood abruptly. “Because it didn’t fucking save her, Aiden.” He yelled - _no -_ roared it. Virtute fled from her perch on the back of the sofa and Aiden blinked in alarm. “She still died. Two engineering degrees, eight years experience in the field, and I couldn’t save her from a single fucking bomb rigged up by some asshole in his kitchen with chickenwire and bleach. Do you know what a human being looks like when they realise they’re about to die? Do you know what happens to their body when it gets blown apart?” His fists clenched. Shaking. Oh yeah, he’d seen. Letho hadn’t hit him hard enough. “She was someone’s _daughter._ She was _Zoe_. And I let her die.”

“Lambert, it’s okay,” Aiden kept his tone level, and slowly stood up from the sofa. Unfortunately, Lambert was backtracking and reaching for his coat. Anger had morphed into distress at what he’d just done, but he was shielding it by turning his face away. “Not a good idea. You shouldn’t go out feeling angry. You might--.”

“I might, what? Go buy a bottle of whiskey?” The front door slammed hard enough to shake the windows and Aiden was left feeling somewhat winded. How had he not seen this coming? _Everything_ that had broken Lambert was linked back to the moment his world came crashing down. 

Aiden stayed up long into the night, fingers curled around multiple cups of coffee to keep him awake. Virtute returned to keep him company, and they watched the television until late night talk shows turned into betting and shopping channel repeats. Several times, he got to his feet and reached for his own coat. The garage door hadn’t opened, which meant Lambert was out walking. He couldn’t have gone far. What if he - ? In a moment of panic, Aiden reached for the phone to ring the police and report a vulnerable man out in the dead of night. But what would they say? _Call back when he’s still missing in twenty-four hours_. No, he’d come back. _Trust. Have trust._ Virtute watched him pace across the living room, which he followed with some hand wringing, and then a little self-chastisement. _Tact_ , Aiden. _Tact._

When the front door finally opened at two o’clock in the morning, the cat bolted and Aiden looked up suddenly, releasing a long breath that he hadn’t realised was lodged in his chest. Lambert shrugged his coat from his shoulders and hung it up before he stepped through into the living room. His fingers flexed against his palms, and he swallowed. There was a horrific vulnerability to Lambert as he stood by the stairs; he seemed somehow _smaller_ \- shoulders hunched, face turned away - unsure that he deserved to be standing there. Aiden took a step forward, only to stop when Lambert lifted a staying palm . “I’m sorry for shouting.” Impossibly quiet, and slowly his eyes lifted from the floor. “And I’m sorry for shoving you, I - that was wrong. I would never - I’m not - .” 

Aiden swooped forward and pulled his lover into his arms. The smell of alcohol was absent - he couldn’t lie, that had been a worry, Lambert was doing so well and a setback now would be devastating for him - and Aiden sighed in relief. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have pushed. I was being insensitive,” he pulled away and cupped Lambert’s jaw in both his hands. “Sometimes I forget that - .”

“- I have shit tons of baggage?”

A quiet sigh. “No. I forget that you self-flagellate every single day with your perceived failings. Why would you not use one of your finest attributes as a weapon against yourself too?” Aiden combed his fingers through Lambert’s hair, and buried his face against his neck. Smelling him, kissing him, nuzzling him. Seeking assurance that he was back, and fine. “Come on, let’s go to bed. I’m going to work from home tomorrow. We can talk about it more then.” That night they fell asleep curled around each other, and Aiden kept Lambert’s head close to his chest; some vain part of him hoped that the sound of his heartbeat could drown out the relentless hum of self-loathing inside it.

***

A bacon sandwich and a hot cup of coffee waited for Aiden on his bedside table for when he woke, perfectly timed for his alarm. He sat up slowly and pulled the plate onto his lap. The shower was on and he could hear the sporadic splash of water and soap suds hitting porcelain tiles. It was Lambert’s day off this week; he was working Saturday instead because of a high influx of MOT appointments. People trying to get their cars sorted in time for the winter. When he stepped out of the bathroom, Aiden put his coffee aside and kicked the duvet away. “Come sit.”

Lambert hooked the towel over the top of the door to be moved later, and sat on the edge of the bed, only to readjust when a raised eyebrow corrected his assumption. He straddled Aiden’s lap, knees just passed his hips, ass on his thighs. He kept his eyes downcast. Still feeling guilty. 

“Look at me.” A hand tucked under Lambert’s chin to lift his head, and slowly those deep brown eyes moved up from where they studiously inspected Aiden’s chest. “Better. Can we talk about it?” 

They didn’t talk about it very much. Lambert liked to try and keep it at therapy, but sometimes it bled over into the rest of his life. This was the first time it had seeped into his relationship with Aiden though. And it chewed at him. He rested a palm on Aiden’s chest and used the deep, strong heartbeat beneath it to steady his own. “I don’t know her name. I looked, but there’s no such thing as records out there anymore. She probably wasn’t even from that area. Just another refugee caught up in more conflict.” 

Silence followed. Aiden didn’t interrupt. Just waited. Lambert sighed, and then continued once he’d pieced together the narrative in his head. All these years later, he often remembered it in the abstract; freeze frames of the worst moments, “It was just a routine patrol. And then bullets started flying from nowhere. They have this tactic. Strap explosives to women and children, then we’ll retreat. No one goes to war to kill kids. I -,” he swallowed, “- she was in a shopping precinct. Standard vest, with timed detonation. Had seen a thousand of them. But… my head - ,” he sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand angrily into his eye, “ - it was just empty. Only fear. That I’d make a wrong move and she’d die. My fault. She was someone’s daughter, maybe had kids of her own, and I was too much of a coward.”

“Was this after the airstrike?”

“Four, maybe five months later. I lost track of time for a bit. Had been kicked out by Keira and drinking heavily before being deployed. That’s probably the reason my brain decided to take a fucking holiday. I did it to myself. Just makes it worse.”

Aiden moved a hand up Lambert’s thigh, fingertips circling on the fine, dark hair thoughtfully. “I know I could say a million different things and it’ll just bounce off, but I have an alternative hypothesis that I’d like you to consider.”

“Yeah?”

Aiden stroked that same palm over Lambert’s hip to his waist. “You were already unwell. Your mind was in pieces from losing your wife, your home, your children, a colleague. Barely five months prior, you’d had two bombs dropped on you and had received no support. You weren’t fit to be there in the first place. That’s not your fault. That’s on your commanding officers. This was the woman you disobeyed orders for, wasn’t it?” It was easy to put two-and-two together. 

Lambert tensed. “Yes.”

“Ahh, so, had you followed orders, she would’ve died anyway. You went one step further to try and save her. Sounds to me that perhaps you're being too hard on yourself." _As usual._

More silence followed, and Aiden ran his hands over Lambert’s chest and shoulders, grounding him in his reality _now._ It was far too easy still for Lambert to disappear back there. Aiden _watched_ it happen sometimes; his fiance would be standing in the kitchen making dinner, in the garden mowing the lawn or pottering around the house, and then his mind would drift, his eyes glaze, and suddenly he wasn’t in suburban Cambridge anymore. He was in Helmand Province with a C8 in his hands and a woman screaming for help. He'd return, shaken and irritable, wanting nothing more than to burrow somewhere dark and silent. Talking about it once wouldn’t solve everything. It needed to be talked about until Lambert _forgave_ himself. Time. Effort. Understanding.

Aiden spoke softly, “Just mill around the house. Take the bike apart or something. And tonight we can watch _Taxi Driver_.” 

Lambert perked up. A small light sparked in the mire of darkness. “And then _Goodfellas_?”

“Yes… and then Goodfellas.” They hadn’t had a Robert de Niro movie night in a while. Aiden could weather the storm because watching Lambert munch on popcorn in between mouthing his favourite lines, boyish and excited, was impossibly endearing. “And then we’ll come up here and I’ll make you feel like you’re floating on clouds.” 

“Hm. Don’t think I deserve it.” 

“That’s the point,” Aiden admired Lambert’s cock as it started to swell; the mere thought of being in Aiden’s care was enough, even if his conscious mind was dismissing it as a luxury he had not earned. “You don’t get to decide. I do. Off you get, I need to make myself presentable before calling my secretary.” With an irritable huff, Lambert flung himself dramatically onto the bed and Aiden headed into the bathroom without looking back. “If you touch yourself, I’ll deny you for the entire night.”

Lambert moved his hand away from where it had wandered lazily to his cock and glared daggers at the bathroom door. “Sadist.”

“Brat.” They hadn’t got to the step of chastity cages yet. Lambert didn’t need them. Part of the thrill was obedience, testing it, and then the chance he’d fail with accompanying repercussions. Aiden stroked a hand down his cock as he showered, planning the tie he’d use this evening and imagining the way Lambert would melt willingly into his arms; to be praised, cared for, and loved in the thorough way he deserved. 

***

 _“Loneliness has followed me my whole life. Everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There’s no escape. I’m God’s lonely man.”_

Travis Bickle monologued about the travesties of his life - having just hit Iris with his cab - and Aiden coaxed Lambert’s head down onto his lap. The popcorn bowl was already half empty, the dinner plates were churning away in the dishwasher and Virtute was purring up a storm on the arm of the sofa. The perfect Friday evening. Contented, Aiden ran his fingers through Lambert’s hair, thumb circling at the back of his neck until chocolate brown eyes began to flutter in pleasure, still trying to watch the film. _A valiant effort_. With _Goodfellas_ lined up, Aiden knew he’d have to work hard to convince his de Niro fanboy to head upstairs. Luckily, he knew all the shortcuts. 

Blunt fingernails scratched lightly across Lambert’s scalp, and then slowly down his jaw through the tougher bristles of his beard. No longer able to focus on anything beyond the pleasant tingles sparking their way across his skin, Lambert tilted his head back and encouraged Aiden’s hand down his throat. The light grip that tightened just beneath the hinge of his jaw sent small tremors of pleasure across Lambert’s shoulders, and a breathy sigh escaped parted lips. It was so easy to give in. He _wanted_ to give in. The squeeze of Aiden’s fingers a subtle reminder of the authority that Aiden wielded so effortlessly; the offer of an opportunity to let go completely. Flopping onto his back, Lambert pressed up into the palm and received a pleased hum in response, “Upstairs?” Aiden asked softly.

“Yeah.” Lambert whispered, and propped himself up on his elbows when Aiden scooped a hand behind his head. He pressed his mouth to Aiden’s lower lip; a careful, timid sip, nothing deep or demanding, and Aiden smoothed a thumb over his cheek as he worshipped his lips in return. It was soft, teasing, accompanied by gentle laps of the tongue, until Lambert became more desperate, nipping and sucking in search of a reaction. 

Aiden growled and pushed him from the sofa, but stayed bound close to his side. Virtute skittered out from under foot as they stumbled upstairs to the bedroom, reluctant to remove their hands from each other even long enough to shoulder through the door. When they pulled apart, panting and flushed, their clothes hanging off, Aiden paused to stroke his lover’s face, their foreheads pressed together. “Love you, kitten. Going to make you purr for me,” he stood up with a final tender caress beneath Lambert’s chin. “Get undressed. Kneel in the centre of the bed.” 

Having waited all day, Lambert huffed and cast Aiden a petulant squint as he kicked his jeans away and tugged his t-shirt over his head. Once he was naked, he knelt where he’d been told and pressed his palms against the tops of his thighs. His cock was full, thick veins pulsing up to the head, but he was better trained than to touch himself. His hips rocked vaguely, longing for friction or the heat of Aiden’s mouth. Lambert tilted his head to watch him set up; he cracked the window, turned off the main light and lit a handful of candles, before ducking into the wardrobe to pick his arsenal. 

In the end, it was just a rope or two and a bottle of oil. Aiden shed the rest of his clothes and knelt behind Lambert, close enough at first to feel the heat of his skin. "Arms behind your back. Folded. Good boy." The temptation for a quick over arm tie and then to just take was strong, but Aiden couldn't deny Lambert the tranquility, and he knew the intimacy of it would assuage his own feelings of distance from last night. 

In the dim, comfortable space of their bedroom, he pressed silken rope to warm skin and began to follow the contours of Lambert's body. Aiden focused on every knot, every pattern; he ran his fingertips down the crease between skin and silk; listened to each slow, steady breath his lover took. He leaned close and inhaled the deep, warm scent and tuned in to the thrum of the pulse beneath his palms. The rig itself was a simple box tie, with Lambert's arms folded behind him, his shoulders drawn back and ropes pressing into the muscle of his chest. "Sit up." The command obeyed instantly, Lambert's rear lifted from his heels. 

Aiden formed a column down his spine to solidify the bind, and then coiled two ropes down his thighs, criss-crossing to the knee. He couldn't help but rake his nails down the thick pillars of muscle; the red welts left behind over twitching skin set a fire in the pit of his stomach, stoked by Lambert's stuttered sigh and the ripple of tension that passed up the defined muscles of his back. "You're so beautiful." Aiden whispered, his voice laden with adoration. 

With the last lengths of rope, he bound Lambert's ankles; they would be able to move no further away from his legs. The tie was strict enough to require help if he needed to move. _Perfection_. "I'm right here, Lambert. You're such a good boy. Behaved perfectly." Aiden sat back and watched as his lover tested his knots; explored the feel and the bite of the rope into his skin and discovered the sensation of being confined, and then of being cradled, and _finally_ **,** slowly, the safety that allowed him to let go. It was visible in the loosening of his shoulders; the drop of his head forward and the slackening of his hands as they fell out of the defensive fists they'd formed. Because he was a _good boy_ , and he was _safe_ , and _secure._ The ropes that held him were strong, ungiving - it was pointless to fight, so he shouldn't - but there was no _need_ because Aiden was there to watch over him. In control.

Aiden had never felt quite so close to a submissive before. He could sense every muscle twitch, hear every breath and thrum of his heart. He felt drunk on it; heady, but hyper-focused. The knowledge of his own safe word reinstated itself. This was new. He wanted to explore the sensation, but he couldn't allow himself to lose track of his partner. Yet... such a fear felt illogical. With a connection this strong, Lambert was the centre of his universe. The rest of the world had faded to grey, amorphous nothing. As he moved in close, the first touches against Lambert's skin sent sparks up through his fingertips that found their resting place at the base of his spine. This beautiful creature - strong, powerful, intelligent - was at his mercy; his to possess. 

The body beneath his hands was pliant but still responsive to his caresses, shivering and flushing, and Aiden pressed his teeth to the slope of Lambert's shoulder. He bit with a low, possessive growl and was rewarded with a reedy, blissed moan. "You're mine." He whispered against the brand he'd left, his hands gliding over the bulges created by the ropes around supple, relaxed muscles. "Mine to love, mine to care for, mine to fuck." He slid his fingers down to the creases of Lambert's thighs, his cock sat in the cleft of his ass. "Tell me you're mine."

"Yours, Aiden. All of me," Lambert bucked into the hands that teased him, and moaned again when Aiden bit another bruise into his shoulder. "Please."

"Please what?" Aiden's own body felt distant. Everything was Lambert. The low tremor of his voice, the race of his pulse, the taste of his sweat and his skin. Nothing else existed. Aiden wanted to be inside him, to feel the clutching heat of his need.

"Fuck me. Please fuck me," Lambert strained and then spread his knees further apart on the mattress until he could feel the thickness of Aiden's cock nestle properly into his cleft. "Need you. Want to feel you."

"So good. Exactly what I want." Aiden praised and heard the pleased sigh of relief. It took a gentle bit of coaxing, but he soon had Lambert presented as he liked. Chest against the bed, knees spread as far as they could go and ropes around his thighs pulled taut by the knots around his ankles. Slick fingers pushed inside an already relaxed hole, but Aiden still teased him, watching his furl flutter and grip as Lambert moaned needily into the bedsheets. "Desperate for my prick, aren't you? Want me to fill you up."

"Yes, _please._ " Desperate now.

Aiden slipped his fingers through the ropes at Lambert's thighs and pressed the head of his cock inside his rim. He held himself there, enjoying the moment of possession, before slipping in with three slow rolls of his hips. It was euphoric; Aiden moaned and growled as he bottomed out with each thrust. Lambert arched his spine and tried to spread his legs further, gasping and keening as he felt the length of Aiden's cock punch deep. He was certain that if he placed a palm to his abdomen he'd feel the head pressing out against his skin. Lambert lost himself completely. Any need to cling on to control evaporated. He was Aiden's to do with as he pleased; no agency, no worries, no anxiety. Just pleasure and freedom..

"Lambert, I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you." Aiden gasped over the symphony of moans from the man below him. One hand slipped from the ropes and wrapped Lambert's cock, wet with precome, and stroked in time with his hips. Balanced so tenuously on the edge, Lambert's orgasm rippled through him in violent tremors. Aiden pressed into seizing walls, moaning as the tight heat demanded his release as payment. He pulled Lambert to him as his cock pulsed for what felt like an eternity; the coiled tension at the base of his spine exploding outwards until it washed through every muscle. When Aiden withdrew, he slumped back to catch his breath; sweat soaked his hair to his face and he was vaguely aware of his hands shaking. His mind drifted.

Fuck. _Domspace._ He tilted his head back and tentatively probed the boundaries of the haze. Just a single breath of time. Of stillness. He could still feel the connection to his lover. Like their heart was one single organ. Shared. Their lives linked. Needed to be close again. His fingers moved on auto-pilot, picking apart the knots until he could cast the ropes to the floor. He pulled Lambert to him, their limbs curling together so tightly it was unclear where one of them ended and the other began. Aiden buried his face in mussed brown hair and drowned himself in the scent; the clean sweat, the musk of sex, the faint tinge of cologne that had faded through the day. 

"You were so good for me. Did everything I wanted. Submitted perfectly." Aiden praised, allowing the words to fall freely and unchecked. "I love you. So much. You're all mine. You gave all of yourself. I'll keep you safe forever."

For a while they lay in the blissful quiet, both floating in different spaces but still intimately connected. Aiden stirred first, hushing his kitten when he protested, and left to get some juice and chocolate. When he returned, Lambert was propped up against his pillows. "That was really good."

"Yeah, I - um," Aiden slipped under the duvet once he'd placed the pint of water at Lambert's bed side and presented the bar of dairy milk. "I hit domspace. I've never - not really, maybe once."

"Huh." Lambert grinned and munched on his treat. "I'm just too fucking tasty for my own good, clearly."

"No argument here."

Lambert ran his fingers over the bite marks on his neck thoughtfully, "Can we - uh, try some more - like a bit of pain next time? I'm not talking thumb screws and shit. I - uh, the biting and the nails felt… pretty good."

"Hmm," Aiden balled his chocolate wrapper up and chucked it onto the bedside table. "Definitely. Your backside would look a real treat all rosy and red."

"Kinky fuck." Lambert smirked and then shimmied down in bed. Once Aiden had blown out all the candles, they curled up and enjoyed a dreamless sleep.


	2. Scars

“What’s wrong with this one?” Eskel cast a quick glance at the pet carrier on Geralt’s lap before returning his eyes to the road. This was the fifth animal to return home with them; two rabbits, one chicken, a duckling and now a long-haired guinea pig. The farm closed to visitors over the winter, which meant a skeleton staff over the weekends and thus no one to monitor all of the animals that were unwell. 

“Another of the males bit him. They had a disagreement over some broccoli. It’s infected. He needs to be syringe fed his antibiotics over the weekend.” Geralt replied. It was mildly amusing that he used _exactly_ the same tone of voice he had when giving a mission report during their time in service; some things never changed. He glanced over his shoulder at Roach, who was sitting perfectly on the back seat, her harness clipped to the headrest to keep her safe. “Good girl, Roach.” She wagged her tail manically, and then leaned forward to lick at his face in thanks; Geralt grimaced, but allowed it. 

“I wish you wouldn’t let her lick your mouth,” Eskel grumbled, elbow propped on the lip of the car door as they waited at a red light. “She licks her ass, and then I have to kiss you at some point in the future.”

“I let Jaskier lick my mouth and he licks your ass,” Geralt shot back tartly. “You still kiss me after that.”

“I’m not sure what to take more of an issue with in that entire analogy, so I’m just going to let it go.”

“Good choice.” Geralt kept the majority of his face deadpan, but Eskel could see the creases at the corner of his eyes that denoted mischief. The farm was _good_ for Geralt. His default expression eased in the few hours after he came home from stern frown to quiet smile. It didn’t matter that he returned smelling of a barn every day; he was content, and a freshly showered Geralt in a t-shirt and flannel trousers every evening was not something Eskel or Jaskier were going to complain about any time soon. His therapist however was now at the point of tearing her hair out because of his poor engagement with the sessions; he attended, he sat, and he talked to her mechanically about different operations. Then she made the mistake of asking him to elucidate on his personal feelings and memories, and he all but shut down. He refused to even acknowledge his time in captivity. Very little progress was being made and his other symptoms persisted. Geralt sighed, “What’s for dinner?”

Eskel sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I was going to try pasta bake. I’ve done some reading. I think we can do it.”

“Hm,” Geralt nodded, gravely. “I never thought I’d miss Lambert, but - .”

“You miss him regardless of the cooking,” Eskel smirked, and they pulled into the industrial estate. “He calls you out on your crap, and you like it.”

“We never tell him though. Never ask for help. We’ve agreed.”

“Agreed. He already has enough gloating material.”

“Mmhm.”

As they opened the front door, the smell of cooking hit them immediately. _It wasn’t pasta bake._ Eskel chucked his keys onto the lamp table and stripped his coat off, while Geralt headed straight over to Roach’s old play pen to settle their house guest. Roach bounded by and headed straight towards her toy box; she was trained beyond the need for a lead, and so Geralt didn’t really bother unless they were near main roads. Once the carrier was propped open and he’d checked the water, Geralt headed straight upstairs for a shower as per his usual routine. 

“Right, Lambert, what next?” Jaskier talked at the iPad propped up against the bread bin. A pan of onions simmered on the induction hob, and half a litre of vegetable stock in a glass measuring jug sat nearby.

“Did you remember to rinse the lentils? If you don't, they’ll taste like ass.” Lambert was sitting in his living room, Eskel could see Aiden’s large, grey cat curled on the arm next to him. 

“Yes, yes, I rinsed them thoroughly, and you’re right, they did smell horrendous.” Jaskier flapped his hands. “Come on, what next?” He tilted his head for the kiss placed on his jaw, and dropped a palm to pinch Eskel’s backside as he walked by.

“Welcome home, Care Bear,” Lambert flicked his chin at the camera. “Add the curry powder, dried lentils and the washed ones. Stir it in. Then add the stock and the softened coconut cream.”

Eskel glanced over the counter. “Where’s the meat?”

“No meat. I wanted to see whether he could follow instructions before letting him cook something that could poison you,” Lambert-the-iPad informed him. “Chop, chop, buttercup.”

Jaskier chucked the ingredients into the pan and then held up the coconut cream. The _solid_ coconut cream. “Ahh, Lambert. I - umm - I think I missed a step.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Lambert slumped back on the sofa. “Boil the kettle, put the sachet in a mug, pour the water over it. Suck up the pain of burnt fingers, or this Dal is fucked. And get that Harbinger of Culinary Devastation out of your workspace.” He pointed at Eskel through the screen. 

“I’m going, I’m going.” Eskel ducked into the fridge and pulled out two beers before heading over to the sofa; Roach sat down at his feet, looking up expectantly, and he patted the cushion as permission. She hopped up with her rawbone in her mouth and settled down on his left side to get some focused chewing done. 

“Alright - ow, ow - it’s in,” Jaskier tipped the now fully melted coconut cream into the pan a couple of minutes later. “Do the mushrooms and onions go under the grill now?”

“Yeah. Put them in for ten minutes. We’ll make the chutney while we wait.” He looked up from the phone at the sound of a door closing in the background, and Jaskier saw Aiden appear briefly to place a kiss on Lambert’s lips, hand stroking down the side of his face and under his chin.

“Good evening, Jaskier.” Aiden waved at the screen and then disappeared from view further into the house.

“You two are so adorable.” Jaskier sighed, pausing in his ferocious dicing of the garlic and coriander on the chopping board.

“Yeah. All fluffy bunnies,” Lambert growled his reply, but the flush up his neck to his face was easily visible, because he’d gone wide-eyed and soft in a single instant. _Back to business_. “Don’t forget the pinch of sugar and the rice vinegar, then you just throw it all together. Alright?”

“Yes, thank you, Lambert. I appreciate this.”

“Yeah, well, someone’s gotta’ look after you reprobates. Later.” The iPad screen went dead just as Aiden dissolved onto the sofa at Lambert’s side and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Jaskier grinned at the screensaver and then returned to his chutney. Just as he was pulling the plates out of the cupboard, Geralt appeared at his back and snaked an arm around his waist for a brief hug. He smelled of musky shower gel, floral shampoos and that lovely cologne Eskel had bought for him a month ago.

“Well, hello there.” Jaskier rubbed his head beneath his chin, soft hair rasping through his five o’clock shadow. “Good day?”

“Mmhm.” Geralt murmured, and pressed a kiss to the curve of Jaskier's ear before drifting off to join Eskel on the sofa. One large hand rubbed over Roach’s head before he settled on Eskel’s right and slipped an arm around his shoulders, accepting the beer with a quiet rumble of thanks. “They’re talking about this documentary called the Tiger King at work.” 

“No. It’ll make you angry. I’ve heard the students discussing it as well,” Eskel flicked through the channels until they found the news. “It’s essentially several hours of people justifying animal abuse.” Before they could discuss their viewing options further, Jaskier appeared with bowls and forks and they pulled apart to inspect the offering.

“Tada! Crispy mushroom dal with coriander chutney. Lambert said you liked Indian, so - ,” he flitted briefly back to the kitchen to collect his own, turn off all the lights and check the hob, before throwing himself into the armchair. “It’s his recipe.”

“What’s the occasion? Thought we were having pasta bake,” Eskel stirred through the lentils. “Not that I’m complaining. It was going to be a difficult operation.”

“Perilous. Potential for casualties.” Geralt added, before scooping some of the mushrooms and onions into his mouth.

When Geralt didn’t immediately gag and then vomit upon tasting his offering, Jaskier swept his hand across his forehead theatrically. “Well, I’ll take that as a win. And it’s your last evening meal with us for a whole week. Pasta bake wasn’t good enough.”

“I don’t leave until Sunday morning. We have Saturday.” Eskel sipped his beer and then tucked in. “But thank you. Pasta for the fourth night in a row wasn’t a particularly appetising prospect.”

“That’s this weekend?” Geralt looked up, brow furrowed.

“Yes. It’s on the calendar.” Eskel cast a quick glance to the side and caught the look of consternation. He’d be heading off to a four day conference in Edinburgh on Sunday morning. It didn’t start until Monday, but he wanted a decent night’s rest before he was expected to think and talk intellectually. “It’ll be a good opportunity for you and Jaskier to spend some quality time together.”

To Jaskier’s relief, this seemed to appease Geralt, who looked at him thoughtfully and then nodded with a quiet grunt. Despite the settled comfort of their relationship, Jaskier sometimes couldn’t shake the feeling that a small gap remained between them; like Geralt was self-conscious about letting himself go completely. The only time Jaskier had seen him vulnerable was that single night on the couch after a nightmare. Since then, Geralt had always locked himself away in one of the other bedrooms with Roach should he be suffering. It wasn’t pride, which meant it was either fear or lack of trust, and that was worse. The sex was otherworldly, and affection was freely given as long as it was Geralt doing the _giving._ Time. Patience. Jaskier was determined.

“Right, I’m going for a shower. Choose a film.” Eskel rolled onto his feet and headed upstairs.

“That was excellent. Better than the takeaway.” Geralt grabbed the remote as he placed his bowl on the coffee table and took a long swig of beer.

Jaskier beamed. “I’d take all the credit, but it would’ve been a disaster without Lambert.” He set about gathering the bowls and carried them away to stack the dishwasher. When he returned, he flopped down on the sofa next to Geralt and watched him flick through the channels. “You know, if you click on the guide, you can scroll through more easily.”

“Mmhm.” 

“Geralt? The guide.”

His persistence was _rewarded_ with an irritable huff, and the guide popped up. A moment of complete stillness followed, filled with an odd kind of tension. Geralt leaned forward to squint at the text, before growling and chucking the remote across to Jaskier, his arms folding tightly over his chest. “You choose.”

Remote plucked from the sofa, Jaskier changed the guide page, and then glanced across at his irascible companion. “What does the top row say?”

Jaw clenched, Geralt stared at the screen. The letters were too small. The white on blue blurred through to the point that he _couldn’t_ read it. He gazed down at the coffee table, and bit out a begrudging acknowledgement of defeat. “I don’t know.” 

“Do you get headaches when looking at screens, or reading lots?” Probing gently, Jaskier tilted his head to try and catch Geralt’s eye. He’d noticed that he had stopped reading the newspaper; they only bought it now so that Eskel could do the crossword, and even then Jaskier had shown him an app on the iPad where he could do it digitally. For men that had worked with some of the most advanced technology on the planet, they were oddly _prehistoric_ when it came to their interests and entertainment. Jaskier wasn’t brave enough to muse over whether it was an ‘age thing’.

Geralt sighed, head tilting back now, trying to look anywhere but at the man inspecting him with sincere concern. He still wasn’t used to it; another human being actually _caring_ about… _him._ Eskel had always been there. A quiet presence in the background - his best friend - but he’d been blind to even the full breadth of that relationship. He didn’t trust himself to analyse Jaskier fully; he was just happy to be _here._ Emotions were difficult. There was no logical structure to them, and they weren’t consistent all the time. Sometimes, curled in bed with them both, Geralt wanted to _talk_ to this floppy haired, earnest man that was worming his way into his heart, but something always stopped him. An uncertainty. And then other times, he wanted to reinforce the barriers between them. _For safety._ For _both of them_. He remembered that Jaskier’s question needed a reply. An honest one. “Yes.”

“We need to get you an eye test, my love.”

Another irritable grunt.

“I think you’d look quite fetching in a pair of glasses.”

“Old more like.” 

Jaskier smirked. “Geralt Rivia, I didn’t have you down as _vain._ ” 

Finally, those azure blue eyes settled upon Jaskier, and they swam with despondency. “I used to have perfect sight.” Even some of his subtitled documentaries had been challenging if the text was too small. It hadn’t bothered him much at the time. Just moving images to occupy his vision while he buried himself away inside his head. 

“Well, you still have perfect eyes.”

An eyebrow rose, and Geralt shuffled around to settle an arm over the back of the sofa, his head tilted to the side as he considered the _shameless_ flirtation. Shameless only in its flagrancy; he privately enjoyed it. Not that he’d ever actually _admit it_. There was that wave again. Affection - warm and soft - deep inside his chest. Geralt gave into the desire to have Jaskier close. “Are you sure? Perhaps you should come and take a closer look.”

“You’re right. I should inspect them properly. It’s been a whole twenty-four hours.” Jaskier slid across the cushion until his thigh was pressed to Geralt’s and he reached out to take his stubbled chin, tilting his head back. “ _Yes._ Beautiful.” So soulful and pure. They reminded Jaskier of a tropical ocean; warm, full of life; alluring even when awash in turmoil. Very much like the set of lips that pressed to his mouth the moment he drew close; they pressed around his lower lip in a tender caress that invited Jaskier to take the lead. _He didn’t need asking twice._

Jaskier slipped a palm up Geralt’s thigh in slow, gentle circles, eliciting pleased sighs from the man himself as soft flannel pyjama bottoms brushed pleasantly against his skin. Their kiss deepened and Jaskier’s fingers wandered up the hardening length of Geralt’s shaft as it pressed up easily through soft material; he dipped his hand inside the waistband and pulled that magnificent prick free so he could stroke it to full mast. When Geralt gathered him into his lap, Jaskier shifted without loosening his grip until he straddled firm thighs and had Geralt's head pinned back through the work of his lips alone. "It's a shame they have to close in bliss." He murmured into Geralt's throat, and smiled at the breathy chuckle. When precome began to leak across his fingers, he drew away. "Go tempt Eskel into bed. I'll turn off everything down here."

It took a whole lot of willpower to leave that comfortable lap and silky smooth cock, but Jaskier valiantly set about cajoling Roach into her crate to sleep. Once she was settled, he filled three pint glasses with squash - because there was nothing worse than being interrupted halfway through because one of them was thirsty - and headed upstairs. The bedside lamp was still on, and the room was further illuminated by the glow of Eskel's laptop. He'd clearly been drawn to his thesis after his shower, with his final deadline looming in a few months' time, and Jaskier placed the pint glasses down on the one patch of desk not covered in bits of poetry and literary discourse. The man himself was currently sprawled on his stomach in bed, his mouth wrapped around Geralt's cock, big arms draped over the thighs either side of his head; the epitome of listless enjoyment. _Geralt_ lounged back against the headboard, lazily combing a hand through still damp black hair as he watched his cock disappear between soft lips. There was only one type of bait that lured Eskel away from his poetry when he became immersed.

Jaskier stripped his clothes away and left them in the already established pile on the floor, pausing only to grab the bottle of lube before he slipped between Eskel's legs. He leaned over and kissed up the muscled back before him, until his mouth pressed to Eskel’s shoulder. The hard length of his cock notched into Eskel’s cleft and he rolled his hips lazily to tease him. Eskel pulled off of Geralt with an audible pop and tilted his head enough to receive a kiss; Jaskier dipped his tongue into the scarred grooves of Eskel’s upper lip and then rubbed the side of his face across broken skin. Eskel spread his legs and canted his hips until Jaskier’s lazy grind rubbed across his entrance and balls, and he huffed a quiet plea. “ _Jaskier…_ ” Low, _indigent_.

“Alright, my love. We’ll keep you nice and full.” Jaskier grinned and shimmied his way back down until he knelt between solid thighs, while Eskel returned his mouth to Geralt’s cock. It had been a long week of preparation for the conference; he wanted to be fucked mindless by his two beautiful partners and forget about the world outside. He lifted his hips when they were tugged and then moaned around the huge amount in his mouth as two slick fingers pressed inside him. The circle of the thumb behind his balls and the slide of fingers down his prick matched the pace of the hand fucking into him. The whimpers and moans that vibrated from his chest pushed Geralt to a slow, luxurious orgasm that Eskel sipped from his cock with lazy laps of the tongue, allowing the majority to splash over his lips, chin and neck. 

When Geralt looked down and saw the state of Eskel’s face, he growled and took him by the chin, forcing his back to arch further so that he could lap his own seed with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. He pushed closer still until Eskel was kneeling, forced back on Jaskier’s fingers and gasping as a result. “Jaskier, fuck him, I want to watch you both come.” Geralt sat up to watch as Jaskier replaced his fingers with his cock; Eskel's eyes glazed and his jaw went slack in Geralt’s palm. “Feel good, Bear?”

“Yeah.” Eskel rasped, “Ahh - mmm.” Jaskier took his hips and pulled him back with force; the raw, hard fuck that he enjoyed juxtaposed with the steadier stroke of Geralt’s hand down his shaft left him breathless. Jaskier pounded into him for a good ten minutes - perfectly angled, unrelenting, deep - and Eskel came in clenching shockwaves, thick cock spurting the length of Geralt’s arm as his body shuddered. Messy fingers forced their way into his mouth and he sucked them clean as Jaskier rode out to his peak. Eskel flopped between Geralt’s legs when he was finally released, his head on one thigh, and Jaskier sprawled over his back in turn. 

They languished in the smell of sex, sweat and the bloom of Geralt’s cologne until Eskel stirred and pulled Jaskier beneath him for another round, big hands stroking reverently over lithe muscle. Jaskier lay trapped between the strong pillars of Geralt’s legs either side of him and the overwhelming heat of Eskel above; the lips that pressed to his neck felt like a brand, sending ripples of fire over his skin, and he gasped, “I surrender into these flames of you, consume me, and let the world see your fire in my eyes.”

Eskel lifted his face away, his brow furrowed, hazel eyes soft in the dim light. “I’m not familiar. Who wrote that?”

A hazy smile. “Jaskier.” 

Said young poet had never been ravished so thoroughly in his life.

***

Jaskier sat in the waiting room of the opticians flicking through a three month old Heat magazine; it was Monday afternoon, Eskel was safely in Edinburgh and Jaskier was astutely avoiding university work. After some bribery - Galaxy chocolate, a stint walking Roach _and_ a bottle of red wine - and a promise from Eskel that he wouldn’t _tease,_ Geralt had _finally_ agreed to an eye test. It was taking a while. Perhaps the optometrist had shone a light too brightly and Geralt had punched him through a wall, or maybe Geralt distrusted the first assessment and had requested a second. The latter was more likely. Jaskier smirked at the thought, and just as he reached the horrendous fashion advice at the back of the magazine, Geralt stepped out of the darkened room holding a prescription.

“Well?”

“Reading glasses.” Geralt growled, looking at the slip of paper in his hand as if his glare alone would make it combust. Jaskier took it from him just in case.

“Well, that’s not so bad.”

“He said it’ll probably get worse as I get older.” Geralt murmured and headed towards the exit.

“Geralt, you need to choose your frames,” Jaskier hopped into his path, and gestured at the rows of glasses with a flourish. The look he received had probably burned many a young cadet to ash in its time, but Jaskier weathered it with a bright smile and slipped an arm through Geralt’s elbow. “Come on. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.” It seemed to be a coping mechanism Geralt deployed for _most_ things he didn’t like dealing with; avoid, ignore, deny. _Well, not this one._

“Hm,” Geralt stood petulantly by the first rack of glasses. “This one will do.” He picked a random frame and held it out.

“Umm, no.”

“What?”

“These are meant for a sixty year old grandma so she can squint at the photographs of her grandchildren, and read the back of the cat food tin,” Jaskier plucked them out of Geralt’s grasp, and slotted them back into their rightful place. “Come over here.” 

Geralt allowed himself to be hauled across the shop and began trying on the various frames that Jaskier placed in his hands. He couldn’t help but get carried away by his youthful enthusiasm - “oh, well, yes, I like those - but maybe a more muted colour - hmm, let’s try frameless - you know, I’m not sure - oh, oh, _these_ are magnificent, hehe.” - and smirked as Jaskier began to don round, outlandish sets that made his eyes bulge. 

“Hey, hey, Geralt. Who does this remind you of?” He swung ‘round in a pair of thick, black box frames. “Right, darling, I’m going to show you how to _look. Good. Naked!_ ”

“I have no idea.” Geralt was smiling though, because Jaskier fluttered his hands and quirked his hip, with a final flick of the hair that sealed the effect. “But I don’t think I could ever look good naked.”

“Oh, ffssht. It’s Gok Wan,” Jaskier swept the glasses from his face. “Yes. Of course. So very ugly. That’s why Eskel and I drool constantly whenever you step out of the shower, all shining, and - ahh, well.” He _adjusted_ his jeans discreetly, and then looked at the frame Geralt still held; black, squared frames with very rounded corners. “Those ones?”

“Do you - ?”

“You looked amazing in everything. What are you comfortable in?”

“These.”

“Right. Good,” Jaskier ushered him over to the counter and they made the order. Like most things medically inclined - and rightfully so - Geralt got a significant forces discount, which was good, because the price made even Jaskier’s eyes water a little. Despite the crisp temperature of the late February day, they walked home. Jaskier knew better than to fill the silence with idle chatter; Geralt always needed a bit of time to recharge after prolonged human contact, and the whole situation had been particularly stressful. As the city proper thinned into residential side streets, the tension in Geralt’s shoulders eased and Jaskier stroked the backs of his fingers across the side of a gloved hand. It served a dual purpose; both a question and a confirmation. _I’m here,_ and, _alright?_ Geralt smiled and offered a nod.

When they finally stepped through the front door, Geralt disappeared briefly to take Roach out to the toilet and Jaskier pulled two beers from the fridge. He had an essay to finish and Geralt had the rest of the day off, so would probably nap or spend some time playing with their energetic spaniel in the field nearby. But Jaskier couldn’t _quite_ shake what Geralt had said in the opticians; _I don’t think I could ever look good naked._ It wasn’t just a off-hand bit of self-deprecation. Geralt didn’t _do_ that. He was honest. Straight to the point. Which meant he _genuinely_ believed it. Was it the scars? Was this a long term thing? He did tend to prefer positions where neither Jaskier nor Eskel were looking at him; giving, never receiving and, if Jaskier were honest, _he_ was usually rendered blind or useless through their combined attentions by the end. _Hmm._

Jaskier threw himself onto the sofa, and passed Geralt’s beer over to him when he returned. Roach, apparently now content, returned to her bed by the front door for another nap. “Don’t you have an essay to finish?” Geralt glanced at the accompanying beer in Jaskier’s hand.

“Yes. I always tend to get higher grades when I’m well-lubricated,” he winked, and then shuffled a bit closer. “What you said in the shop, about not looking good naked. You know that’s not true, don’t you?”

Geralt gave him the side-eye. Not a good sign. “I don’t need a pep talk, Jaskier.”

“Oh, so you think it _is_ true. Well, it’s not your physique, because I know you monitor that closely - flawless by the way, you really smashed through that layer of chocolate-induced puppy fat, which I rather enjoyed and sometimes miss, but however you’re comfortable, my love - so, is it the scars?”

_Silence._

“So it is.” 

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You have your own language,” Jaskier folded his legs beneath him. “I’m studying under a master Geralt interpreter, remember? That flick in your jaw, slight squint in your eyes; that means I’m either close to or on the mark.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Jaskier paused, carefully measuring Geralt’s demeanour. If he pushed too far too quickly he’d lose him. Complete shutdown, and it wouldn’t be gentle either. More like an overstretched elastic band snapping back into place; the impact would sting. “When we met the second time, you were happily walking around here in your boxers. You don’t do that anymore. So, that leads me to wonder what’s changed. The flat is still just as warm -,” Jaskier blamed it on Eskel’s mediterranean heritage, he seemed to like it outrageously snug at all times, “- Eskel is still just as enamoured, Lambert’s gone, Roach doesn’t care, so it’s me.”

_More silence._

“You’re self-conscious in front of me.”

“I fuck you, Jaskier. Hardly self-conscious.” A fortifying swig of beer, but he wasn’t looking. Avoidance of eye contact wasn’t _rare_ for Geralt, but coupled with all his other tells, Jaskier knew he was right.

“Yes. In the nice, comfortable, dimly lit safety of Eskel’s bed, usually from a position of dominance or obscurity,” Jaskier tilted his head to the side. “That won’t do.”

“You have complaints?” Geralt’s eyebrows shot up, and _now_ he looked.

“Yes. I want to look at you when we fuck from now on. Laid out in front of me. Everything.” It had taken a few times for Eskel to relax enough to have the lights on, and not try to bury his face away in Jaskier’s chest, the pillow or tilt it away. Jaskier had worshipped those scars; stroked them, kissed them, licked them and _come_ on them. Not _all_ at the same time. Well, _straight away._ He slid over the sofa and invited himself into Geralt’s lap just as he had a few nights before. 

Geralt lifted his hands as he was _invaded_ , and despite the _immediate_ interest of his traitorous prick, huffed indignantly. “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Oh, we’re not going to make love. I’m going to kiss and stroke every scar on your body.”

“Some of them are dulled. I can’t feel anything.”

Jaskier smiled gently, noting that he wasn’t immediately dismissed. “That’s fine. It’s not just the physical sensation that matters.” He took the beer from Geralt’s hands and leaned back to set it on the floor, before returning to the hem of his shirt. “May I?” 

Tropical blue met cornflower blue as Geralt took a moment to consider. He didn’t… _think_ Jaskier would care. As long as he was satiated in bed, as long as - 

But apparently, he _did._ And from the furrow of his brow, the sadness in the gaze that watched him now, it _upset_ him. The idea that he had made Jaskier _unhappy_ chewed at Geralt in a way he never thought possible. It was the same gnawing ache that filled him when Eskel was low. “Fine. Just - be careful.” 

_Gentle. Be gentle with me._

Jaskier heard the real meaning, and slowly pulled Geralt’s t-shirt over his head. He smoothed his thumbs over Geralt’s eyebrows and then down his cheeks, before leaning forward to kiss him tenderly. Fingertips were light, but not ticklish. He wanted Geralt to _feel_ his progress, even if perhaps the nerves in some of the tissue were damaged or gone. His mouth followed each tender caress as he worked over every blemish; the burn mark at his shoulder, the knot missing from just below his collarbone; the slashes across his chest; the nicks and swirls on his ribs. Some of them elicited no response until Jaskier kissed the skin around them, but for others he could feel Geralt twitch and shiver. “Is this okay?” He whispered as a lave of his tongue across one line in particular made Geralt gasp.

“Yes, sorry,” he murmured. “That one’s always been… sensitive.”

“In a bad way?” Jaskier stayed where he was, kneeling now between Geralt’s feet on the floor, his breath fluttering across his skin.

“No.” His hand slid around the back of Jaskier’s head and gently guided him back. He was ready for the next lap of Jaskier’s tongue over the very same sweet spot; warm, and wet, and _good._ Geralt tilted his head back and closed his eyes, his fingers still stroking through the soft mop of Jaskier’s hair as the other kneaded at the sofa beside him. He was hard. Knew he was. But he didn’t want the kisses to stop, not when they were accompanied by soft hands that caressed his ribs, fingertips that teased his nipples and down the rivets of knotted skin that he never thought anyone would want to go near. Geralt was lost to it. The sensations fluttered through him unpredictably - intense and winding - eventually he gave up trying to _brace_ himself. It was easier to just float, and surrender to it. When Jaskier spoke, his voice sounded oddly distant - like he was standing at the otherside of the room - and Geralt blinked down at him.

“Let me do your back?” Thumbs circling gently halfway up Geralt’s ribs, Jaskier studied the soft, glazed look in Geralt’s eyes and knew the anxiety was gone - perhaps not for good, but certainly for now - and while he hadn’t _planned_ to make love, Geralt’s jeans were now _straining_ with his level of enjoyment. _It would be a waste._

Wordlessly, Geralt shifted on the sofa until he faced the arm, and Jaskier settled behind him. More lines, more knots; more luxurious kisses to worship them. Those soft, inquisitive hands continued to circle over his chest too and Geralt moaned partly in relief, partly in pleasure when they finally _did_ unbutton his jeans and slide his cock free. “Jaskier - .”

“Do you want to stop?”

“No.” Geralt whispered, and allowed himself to be guided back against Jaskier’s chest. He’d never really _noticed_ how similar they were in height; Jaskier was athletic where he was broad; lithe where he was thick, but now he was cradled effortlessly, one hand encircling his cock in a firm, even grip, while the other teased down his abdomen. He was vulnerable, but at ease with it. “Jaskier.”

And Jaskier suddenly realised he wasn’t meant to answer, not every time. Not verbally. A kiss was enough, a firmer caress, a quiet hum. Geralt was reminding himself of _who_ he was wrapped in, of who was making him feel so good he couldn’t keep his eyes open or think clearly. It was veneration and Jaskier lapped it up, allowing Geralt to bind their fingers together and hold that hand firmly. He relished the way that Geralt thrust up slowly into his grip until he came with a quiet moan, hand tightening around the one held hostage against his chest. 

They didn’t move. Jaskier wiped his hand clean on Geralt’s jeans, receiving only a quiet, displeased grunt, but he wasn’t relinquished. The television turned on at some point, but they only paid sporadic attention to it; Geralt was still entranced by the easy affection lavished on his scar-mottled skin by the hand that continued to brush lazy circles across it, and Jaskier revelled in the opportunity to just _hold_ Geralt in the way he wanted to. Not sitting in his lap, not in a position of _being held_ , but to actually cradle him, to have him eventually begin to doze, relaxed and trusting, their fingers still wound together over the deep, strong beat of his heart.


	3. Born Again

Lambert rolled over onto his back and squinted at the ceiling. What day was it? _Sunday_. What time was it? His head lolled to the side and he slapped a hand onto the bedside table in a lazy grope for his phone. _9.00am_. Holy shit. He hadn't slept in this late since he was a teenager. Had to be that massage Aiden had given him the night before. He was fucking obsessed with them since their spa break. Lambert couldn't complain. They ended with a good, long fuck that melted his brain. Apparently to the point of a legitimate lay in. With a final feline stretch, he rolled out onto his feet and grabbed some clean boxers from the drawer.

The smell of coffee and cooking bacon swept over him as he staggered listlessly down the stairs, followed quickly by the less appetising sound of some of Aiden's satanic death metal. Lambert walked into the kitchen and peered at the Google Nest Hub with a critical eye. "We Drink Your Blood by Powerwolf," he tapped the album cover. "Who also wrote such hits as Die, Die, Crucify. So, are we summoning C'thulu before or after breakfast?" He wrapped an arm around Aiden's waist and nuzzled a kiss against his neck.

"I thought perhaps after, and then I was going to sacrifice a bird or something. Virtute is sourcing one now." Aiden was watching his rotund feline slink across the grass outside. She was too slow and lazy to actually catch anything. Even the fattest wood pigeon was safe from her predatory machinations. 

"If only your law partners knew about your satanic rituals," Lambert checked the grill to scrutinise the bacon, and then inspected the mixing bowl of eggs. It was Aiden's turn to make breakfast, but he couldn't help but quality assure. "So sweet and innocent on the outside, but a soul of metal studs and devils' horns."

"Hm. They already think worse," Aiden turned and folded his arms. "And you're all prickles on the outside, yet I heard you crooning along to Westlife while working on the bike."

"Actually, it was Take That," Lambert corrected, pulling a pan out from a nearby cupboard. "Gary Barlow was my first male mastabatory fantasy. And he just got better with age."

Aiden guffawed. "Gary Barlow, you know, I've been told I look like - oh, wait, no," he laughed when Lambert wriggled his eyebrows at him, splashing a dash of olive oil into the pan. "Mine was Till Lindemann from Rammstein."

"Rammstein…" Lambert tilted his head. "Oh, shit. The German guy that fucks his keyboardist with a dildo on stage, and sets himself on fire and shit. _Fuck_ , Aiden."

"Mm. I have a type."

"I think I'm flattered. Not sure. I'll work it out later." 

"Aren't I meant to be doing that?" Aiden drew up behind Lambert, chin tucked on his shoulder, and eyed the cooking eggs. 

"Bacon's nearly done. Needed to get it sorted - hey, Google, play Black Widow."

 _Playing Black Widow by Fame on Fire feat. Twiggy_.

Lambert blinked. That was not the side the Iggy Azalea he wanted on a Sunday morning. "Do you seriously have a heavy metal cover for every one of my favourite songs?"

"Yes."

"Bullshit."

"Name it. Bet I have one."

Lambert smirked, and tipped the eggs out onto two plates. "Dark Horse by Katy Perry."

"Google: Dark Horse by Our Last Night."

"Fuck, uh… I Knew You Were Trouble, Taylor Swift."

"Too easy. Heavy metal or soft rock?" Aiden propped himself up against the counter as Lambert pulled the bacon out of the grill.

"Soft?"

"The one by We Came as Romans then."

"Alright, this is some kinda - how about Larger Than Life by the Backstreet Boys?" He definitely had Aiden there. No one covered boy bands other than more boy bands.

"Ooh. Niche. Google: Larger Than Life by Neshiima." 

"Unfaithful by Rhianna, Lay All Your Love on Me by Abba."

"Ooh. Unfaithful by Exit Eden, and Lay All Your Love on Me by…" Aiden gave Lambert a moment to believe he was victorious, and then, "by Amberian Dawn. Both very operatic actually." 

"Fuck, fine. I'm beat." He passed Aiden's breakfast across to him. "I need to start sabotaging your playlists."

"In this house, we like it heavy." Aiden flashed a set of devil horns with his left hand and spat his tongue out in a way the frontman for Kiss would be proud of, before heading into the living room. "You know, with your music taste, I don't know how you could've ever believed you were straight."

"Bitch, don't stereotype me." Lambert turned the oven and hob off. "A bro can get his groove on to a bit of Taylor and be perfectly straight."

"Yeah. Whatever you say, kitten."

"You know I lost my virginity to the Fallen album by Evanescence." Lambert flopped onto the sofa, legs folded underneath him. "In one of the music rooms at school."

"I'm not sure what to be more appalled at. The fact that you popped your cherry to My Immortal, or that it was at school. What a lucky… ?" 

"Lady. Kiera. I had my tongue piercing by that point. Got no complaints. And inner city London schools are shit. A mate of mine fingered his girlfriend in the back of a maths lesson and the teacher was too drunk to notice. Drama lessons were drug pickup slots, and I spent most English lessons outside smoking pot."

Aiden chucked his fork down. "Your horrendous experience at secondary school aside. Tongue piercing?"

"Oh yeah. I was pretty good with it too." Lambert smirked, and clicked the channel over to Good Morning Britain. "Big ol' purple mohawk."

"I would love to see pictures. Please show me this goldmine."

"Shit outta luck. Got nothin'. Maybe a couple of grainy ones of me on stage at the corn exchange." 

Aiden blinked, his smile fading. "What? No school pictures? What about baby pictures?"

"I think the only picture of me as a kid that exists is the mugshot in my juvenile record, and that's sealed." Lambert didn't seem to notice the sudden pain on Aiden's face at first, but when the silence dragged on he turned away from the television. "You alright?"

"You have no photographs of your childhood… at all?"

"Well, no. I lived out of bin bags for five years of my life, and before that was just a clusterfuck. First time I ever actually owned anything half decent was the kit the army gave me when I joined." His tone was so painfully matter-of-fact, and then he realised he was being… _urgh, was that pity?_ Lambert shifted uncomfortably and looked away. "Look, it's not that big a deal."

"It is. It's a big deal. I'm sorry - I - I'm just sorry, Lambert." Aiden shifted across the sofa and wrapped himself around his kitten. He could already see the barriers being thrown up, and wasn't having any of it. "I love you. We're going to make so many memories together, and I want to fill this house with pictures of them." 

"Yeah, that'd be cool." Lambert grinned and then glanced over his shoulder at the big cabinets at the back of the living room. Aiden's dad was estranged, but his mum was still there and alive. A GP. They were due to meet for the first time in a couple of weeks. She did a lot of aid work abroad, but would soon be retiring. Aiden had folders and folders of photographs from his childhood. "Can we look at yours?"

"You want to?"

"Yeah. Bet mini Aiden was a right little shit."

Aiden grinned. "My mother would agree. Alright. Let's do a quick This Is Your Life."

They spent the next few hours pouring over Aiden's photograph albums. Lambert ribbed him for his scene kid haircut during his teens - "Aiden, are those black and white wrist tubes right there? That is a lot of eyeliner. I would have destroyed you - holy fuck was that your first boyfriend? He looks like a beast - no way he was a bottom - oh, he… he was, right" - and grinned at all the holiday snaps. It didn't matter to Lambert that he had nothing equivalent. For him, his life had started when his kids were born, paused for a bit, and he was born again when Aiden bought him that cappuccino in Cambridge nearly a year ago. _What was the point of dwelling on the damages of the past when the present was so fucking good?_

***

A year had passed since their first meeting in the Coffee Shop and Lambert was determined to make it something special. They were going to start wedding planning soon, and Lambert needed as many brownie points on his chart as physically fucking possible to survive the process. It was a weekday, but Aiden was working from home on Lambert’s instruction. No meal out though; his dapper lawyer spent his life wining and dining clients to the point that restaurants had lost their glamour, so he was having a home cooked meal. For starters breaded goat cheese stuffed with beetroot and ginger chutney, prawn orecchiette with roasted-shell olive oil for main and a dessert of nutty caramel tart with coffee ganache. Heston could jog - the fuck - on, because Lambert was on the job. And then… evening entertainment. _With a difference._

The idea had occurred to Lambert while he was shaving three mornings before The Big Event. He was thinking back to their spa weekend and Aiden’s proposal. _Soppy bastard._ On the beach, _with a ring_. And then Lambert threw him in the ocean. Yeah. _Good shit. Good weekend._ Apart from the little blip with the wax strips. Like - he wasn’t that bad, right? His eyes dropped down from the mirror to his groin. Neat, tidy. Aiden liked his chest hair, his arms and his legs. But that wasn't what Aiden had intended. Or rather _where_. He grabbed a handful of his own butt and, like many of the things he did in life, Lambert decided on a whim to surprise his husband-to-be. Because his face would be hilarious. It might even excite him into a fervour like the striptease, and Lambert would make him come first. 

_Yeah. This was gonna be good._

The phone call to book it was harrowing. Lambert spoke to a woman called Stacy and hadn't realised until that moment you could hear fake tan and acrylic nails in someone's voice. One day til Operation Anniversary and Lambert stood outside the salon in his beaten up leather jacket, loose jeans and T-shirt remembering why it was always important to sleep on big, life-changing decisions. Like having your ass waxed. He'd done some research and then promptly nuked the browser history from orbit for his own sanity. "Oh, fuck." He paced a bit more. Come on, this was… child's play compared to fixing a tank under enemy fire, or a thirty thousand foot skydive into hostile territory. Bit of wax, bit of pain.

He psyched himself up with a few heavy pants and then stepped inside. His salon artist - _what the ever lovin' fuck was that title_ \- was called Karen. Obviously. It wasn't too bad. Uncomfortable. The wax even felt… pleasant. And then she said the fateful words, "Okay, love, now spread, please."

_Holy. Motherfucking. Shit._

Lambert discovered a few new octaves in his vocal range that afternoon, and longed for the gentle hand of an SAS-trained interrogator. He wasn’t sure there was any skin left down there. _Was she ripping chunks off?_ His eyes watered and he bit welts into the back of his wrist, then he _paid_ for the privilege. Sitting comfortably for the first few hours was an impossibility, and so he walked back. A shower helped. By the evening, it was manageable. Apparently it would be fine tomorrow, so he popped some ibuprofen and hoped Aiden's voracious libido took an evening off.

Thankfully - or not really, he hated Aiden working late into the night - there was a high profile case one of his teams needed guidance on, and Lambert was banished to bed at midnight at the start of a Zoom call. When Aiden slipped in behind him, Lambert rolled over and gathered him up, hands rubbing down his back and combing through his hair until he melted. "Mm, love you." Murmured sleepily into his chest as Aiden drifted off. 

The alarm seemed to sound about five minutes later. Lambert convinced Aiden to sleep another couple of hours - technically he started work at nine o'clock - and made sure there was hot coffee and scrambled eggs for when he woke up. They'd agreed to no presents, but cards were fine, and Lambert propped his on the tray as he headed upstairs. 

Breakfast was waiting on a made bed when Aiden left the shower, and not for the first time he marvelled at just how lucky he was to have tricked this one into marriage. The card was sweet, with an image of Lambert and Virtute on the front, and a little picture of stick men in a creative position on the inside. Dressed in slacks and a pale blue shirt, he padded downstairs and slipped his arms around Lambert's waist, sliding his own card onto the work surface. "Thank you, kitten." 

"Welcome. Ah-ah, no, you have work - ." Lambert took Aiden's wrist as his fingers began to sink below the elasticated waistband of his joggers, "save it for tonight." He dipped and weaved away, waving a hand dismissively at the scathing look he received; Aiden didn’t like it when he said no. Lambert was probably the only person whoever did in any context.

"That’s fine. I’ll make you beg me for it tonight." Aiden departed with a last kiss to the side of Lambert's neck and disappeared into his study to work. The day dragged, and despite the endless supply of coffee, Aiden found his mind wandering back to his Kitten. He wanted to be with him in the kitchen. Preferably with Lambert bent over a counter, or up against the wall. He read one email five times because the mental image of Lambert's back, shining with sweat, muscles flexing, kept distracting him, and he sat back in his chair to scroll through the Kitten Portfolio on his phone. How was it only two o’clock? No. This wouldn’t do.

He left his desk and wandered into their bedroom. It was so nice to not call it _his_ anymore. There was evidence of Lambert _everywhere_. His gym bag tucked under the bed; his bottles of cologne and the one moisturiser Aiden had cajoled him into using on his face and hands at least, and his rows of black shirts, t-shirts and jackets. Have to send him out shopping at some point. Perhaps Jaskier would be a good assistant? _Hmm_. Aiden grabbed the bottle of lube and his latest acquisitions - just to take the edge off his own impatience - before sending a text to Lambert.

His lover appeared barely half a minute later. “Texting me while I’m _in_ the house is a new low,” Lambert grumbled, and then glanced at the collection of leather belts in Aiden’s hands. “I told you that - .”

“Clothes off. Now.” 

Eyes narrowed, Lambert swaggered his way over to square up to Aiden, clearly deciding how much of a fight he was going to stage. When Aiden met his gaze unflinchingly, his aura of authority rolling off in waves, Lambert pulled his t-shirt over his head and dropped his joggers down to his ankles. His boxers remained in place, because Aiden hadn’t been specific, and Lambert was a bratty little shit.

Aiden tilted his head, but said nothing. He didn’t need to. Lambert knew the game he was playing. The belts fell onto the bed and Aiden squeezed his chest and then slipped slow hands down his waist to grip the clothed globes of his ass. “Feeling rebellious today?”

“You’re messing with my timeline.” Still defiant, even though his cock was already keenly interested in Aiden’s proximity. He wasn’t even undressed. It was the heat of his hands, the weight of his gaze, the promise of the belts and the toys on the bed next to him. His goats cheese tarts could probably wait for half an hour or so.

“Hmm,” Aiden drew his hands away and grabbed the biggest array of the belts. It was a simple chest harness; across the shoulders, around the ribs, with a metal ring in the middle of the chest and back. He adjusted a few of the straps until they sat snug against the curves of Lambert’s frame. The others were easier; cuffs for his wrists and his ankles; he paused each time he finished feeding the buckle to place gentle kisses on his arms, and then his thighs before he stood up. Finally, Aiden picked up his favourite purchase of them all. The collar with its silver letters emblazoned proudly across black leather: Kitten. He lifted it up to Lambert’s neck, only to meet his first moment of resistance, a curled lip and a set brow. “Be a good boy.” A warning. Lambert growled and allowed the collar to wrap his throat. “Beautiful. Is it all comfortable?”

Lambert flexed in the chest harness and then rolled his wrists in the cuffs. “Yeah, fine.” 

“Look at me. Head up.” Aiden didn’t like it when Lambert cowed, and a downcast gaze was the first warning sign. A gentle hand smoothed under Lambert’s chin and tilted it so those beautiful eyes settled on his. “Better.” The fantastic thing about this rig was that it could be attached to the straps on the bed, each other and any other ropes he wished to add. The clips and the rings were robust, and when his feral kitten tested them, they would hold without issue; it had been fairly challenging to find something strong enough. Lambert had broken through three sets in previous weeks.

A single finger pressed at the top of Lambert’s chest and he fell back onto the bed. The final step was to uncurl the ropes from where they were tucked between the headboard and mattress; Aiden bound Lambert’s wrists and then sat back on his knees at the side. “You’ll lay with your legs spread. If you try and close them, I’ll bind them.”

Aiden narrowed his eyes when Lambert smirked; he wasn’t usually this belligerent. _Clearly he needed a firmer hand._ With two fingers hooked through the waistband, Aiden dragged Lambert’s boxers off and discarded them on the floor, before nudging his knees open. And then he saw exactly what his lover had been concealing, and caught the shit eating grin cast down at him.

The reaction was as Lambert had expected. Aiden’s pupils expanded immediately, his lips parting, his skin flushing. “When did you do this?” His voice was oddly level though, and that should’ve probably been Lambert’s first warning, but he was too busy feeling smug.

“Couple of days ago.”

“You’ve been like this for a couple of days and didn’t tell me?”

He actually sounded… _pissed off?_ Lambert blinked. “Well, yeah, it was meant to be a surp- - Aiden - Aiden, what are you - ack!” Despite his more slender build, Aiden was deceptively strong. He grabbed the back of Lambert’s thighs, pushed him up onto his shoulders and neck and then wrapped his arms around Lambert’s waist to keep him in his shoulderstand. “Aid - EN! Aahh!” There were those high octaves again, because Aiden’s tongue had just lapped across his hole and it sent tremors through his core. He struggled briefly, writhing against Aiden’s chest, legs flailing until a sucking kiss at the back of his balls stole his breath away and his legs went limp. “Oh f - fuck, _ahh_.” The tip of that wicked tongue circled Lambert’s rim, and then drew away to lap a warm strip from entrance to his balls.

With one arm still wrapped tightly around Lambert’s waist, Aiden stroked his cock with his free hand, allowing the precome to bead and drip onto Lambert’s chin below. The length in his hand was rock hard and soon twitching with the beginnings of climax. Lambert whimpered. It was blindingly good, everything tingled and tensed with each trace of Aiden's tongue, hips bucking instinctively. But _what the fuck_ , they’d never done this before and Lambert hadn’t even considered it a possibility. Trust Aiden to fucking well one up him. As the tip slipped just inside he struggled again, and Aiden growled, the vibrations rippling across Lambert’s tenderest area. “I warned you, kitten.” 

“What’re you gonna’ do?” Lowered onto his back again, Lambert lifted his head as Aiden withdrew from the bed briefly, and then returned with two coils of ropes in his hands. “I’m already tied up - what - ?” He got his answer when Aiden looped the rope through the ring of one ankle strap and then tied the other end to the headboard, pulling until Lambert’s leg was lifted outwards, and then proceeded to bind the other in the same way. Splayed open, with very little room to move, Lambert felt extremely vulnerable. More so than when he trussed up in rope completely. “Aiden, please - I - don’t -.”

And then Aiden was there, responding to his pleas; a warm, safe presence over the top of him, pressing kisses to the side of his neck. Still fully clothed, he leaned over between Lambert’s legs on one hand and stroked his side with the other. Once his lover had calmed, Aiden pulled his mouth away, but stayed kneeling over him, hands planted either side of his chest. “You did this to turn me on. To gain the upperhand.” Voice stern, expression… dangerous.

“Yes.”

“You wanted me to lose my cool.”

Lambert grumbled. “Yes.”

“You’ve achieved your goal. Now you can deal with the consequences. I will enjoy this at my own leisure. You can struggle as much as you want.”

 _Why did that make him so fucking hard - what the fuck?_ Lambert’s shoulders bunched and his toes curled as the tension coiled in the pit of his stomach. He trusted Aiden, but the implicit threat at the base of his tone was doing odd things to Lambert that he couldn't explain. “Does - does the safe word still count?”

The tenderness was back, and Aiden pressed another kiss to his neck. “Always,” he nuzzled into the side of Lambert’s beard. “As I said, you can relax, or you can struggle. Do what feels good, but I have two days to catch up on.” 

With a final kiss, Aiden left the bed and returned briefly to the wardrobe. Lambert hadn't really catalogued Aiden's collection of toys, but he was aware there were things in there that could destroy him in about a hundred different ways. One such object was the Hitachi Magic Wand that Aiden appeared at the foot of the bed with. That thing was so fucking powerful that it had to be _plugged into the mains._ "If you put that in my ass, I'll die. You'll go down for murder." He yanked down at the bindings; the bed complained but held.

"I'd get away with manslaughter. Silencing a bratty sub. Stop sassing, or I'll gag you." He pressed his thumb into the sole of Lambert's foot, and his lover hissed in irritation. "Do you know how delicious you look, kitten? I'm going to make you come so hard, you won't be able to walk."

"Promises, promises."

"Final warning."

Lambert closed his mouth with an audible clack and then Aiden's head dropped between his thighs to his ass, and it knocked the breath from his lungs. "A-ahh, nnngh, Ai - ah." The way he moved his tongue in full, firm circles and then the little laps, and _oh fuck_ , the flat of his tongue felt _so_ hot and _so good._ The wand still lay inert on the bed and Lambert knew he was going to be coming on demand whether he wanted to or not. His legs shook in their bindings, cock dribbling a mess over his stomach, and he arched when Aiden slipped his tongue inside again. "Fuck. Fuck. A-ahh." By the time his lover sat back, thumb brushing across his lower lip, Lambert was panting and misty-eyed.

"Feels good to be at my mercy, doesn't it?" Aiden swept his hands down the insides of Lambert's thighs to illustrate his point. They couldn't close, couldn't push him away. When his thumb pressed against the wet bud of Lambert's hole, sensitive and relaxed, Lambert whined, cock twitching. "Good boy. Much better when you're needy." Aiden grabbed the wand, wet it with a bit of lube and switched it onto the lowest setting. Any higher would be too much to start with. He pressed the head to Lambert's inner thigh and watched his head flop back as it slowly circled down to his balls. 

"Aiden - fuck, ahh, it's - nnngh." The lighter touch was harder to deal with. The vibrations concentrated in one small spot and overloading the nerve endings. When Aiden pressed more firmly over a greater surface area, Lambert groaned and pushed his head back into the bed. The pleasure crested over him like waves lapping at the shore, carrying away his coherent thoughts and composure until all that remained was raw sensation and gathering pressure. The bulbous head of the toy slipped down his taint in a smooth glide and pressed up until he could feel the vibrations in his prostate. His legs tried to close in automatic resistance, but the ropes held fast. He thrashed, only to be gentled into stillness when Aiden cooed at him.

"Such a good boy - breathe - feels intense, I know, but you're doing so well." The toy roved down to Lambert's entrance and pressed to his sensitive rim, earning another stream of tortured whimpers, hips bucking. "Do you want to come Lambert? A little bit of relief?"

"Yeah, Aiden - please please - I - ahh, god, fuck - please."

"I'm going to make you come here, then I'm going to take you to my office for the rest of the day. You'll be a good kitten and kneel on the soft rug by the armchair, won't you?"

"Yeah, I'll be good - hnngh - _Aiden_ , c'mon." 

Aiden shifted the vibrator over Lambert's balls again and stroked it lazily up and down the underside of his cock, pausing occasionally at his frenulum to coax a particularly fierce spasm from his body. Two fingers slipped easily inside to massage his prostate in slow circles. The orgasm curled through Lambert like a coiled spring, tight and almost painful, and when it finally broke loose his entire body bunched up in a shuddering wave of tension. Wrists and ankles chafed at the restraints, but he could do nothing to stop the stimulation that blotched out his vision with circles of orange and grey. "Good. Well done. So wonderful." Aiden purred, clicking the wand off and stroking a soothing palm down Lambert's thigh. 

"Aaaahh," was all Lambert could manage as every muscle tingled. His limbs flopped uselessly when Aiden undid the ropes, coiling one around his fist as he grabbed Lambert by the chest harness and pulled him to his feet. 

"Look at you, filthy - covered in your own come - beautiful." Pausing to grab the gag with the leather bit just in case, Aiden supported his listless partner down the landing into the study. "Down you go, on your knees. Good boy." Using the rope, he bound Lambert's wrists behind him to his ankles in a firm hog tie.

"Aiden." Sentient again, Lambert gazed at the tented front of his lover's trousers. "Want you in my mouth."

"Oh, you do? Well, you need to earn it," Aiden stood and smoothed a hand through Lambert's hair. "Kneel here. I'll decide when you've been well behaved for long enough."

"Aiden." Incredulous, and then he saw the gag waved vaguely in his direction and fell silent. He didn't like the gag. It made him drool and seethe. Aiden had used it twice before. Lambert had deserved it. But now he didn't want to push it. Tied up in Aiden's study on the soft rug, he felt an odd kind of peace settle over his mind. Head tilted down, Lambert listened to the birds tweet in the box outside the window, the tap of Aiden's fingers across the keyboard at his desk and the sound of his own fucking heart in his ears. It was an odd thing to be so aware of yourself; the pace of your breathing, the coil of your muscles as they held, the rasp of your skin against supple leather when you twisted. He realised he was panting. Knees pressed outwards, Lambert gazed at the drying come on his stomach and then up at Aiden sitting nonchalantly at his desk. _Fuck, getting hard again._ Hadn't even been fucking touched. He wanted Aiden's attention, so shuffled and tugged at the restraints. Nothing. A pointed sigh and a more exaggerated movement. "Aiden."

Two emerald eyes left the computer screen and settled on him, taking in the swollen redness of his erection and the pleading wideness of his eyes. "Patience. I need to finish this email."

Lambert whined. _Fucking whined._ He grit his teeth and yanked at the cuffs, but fell still, shoulders sagging. Another twenty minutes went by but his arousal didn't ebb. Every time he moved, or looked up at Aiden, he was reminded of his place. His vulnerability. He was doing as he was told, and his reward was imminent. When the swivel chair creaked, Lambert looked up, shoulders squaring. His cock dribbled, strained. "Aiden." A reverent whisper.

"Hello, kitten. You've been a good boy." 

"Yes."

"Tell me what you want." A hand smoothed down the length of Lambert's cock and it leapt eagerly against Aiden's palm.

"Want you in my mouth." His lips parted, tongue lapping across them as he eyed Aiden's crotch. When his lover stood wordlessly and unzipped his fly, Lambert shuffled eagerly, mouth open. 

"Say please." Aiden pulled his prick through the buttons of his boxers, fingers massaging down the shaft.

"Please." Lambert's eyes fluttered in pleasure as the thick head sat heavily on his tongue. A soft moan vibrated up from his throat and he tried to suck.

"No, stay still. Mouth open." Aiden slid his hand through Lambert's hair and gripped, pulling his head back. When that stubbled jaw went slack, he slipped his cock deeper. "You're going to take this like a good boy, and then I'll let you go and cook us dinner." A vague nod accepted the order, and Aiden thrust forward with a smooth roll of his hips. Lambert drooled and gagged, but took it all, throat tightening around Aiden's shaft as it pushed deep. "God, you're so good for me - taking all of it - look at you, swallowing my prick - tastes good, doesn't it, kitten?" An appreciative moan in response. "You're fucking beautiful on your knees Lambert - mouth full, your cock leaking - fucking perfect. So hungry for me. My good boy. My beautiful kitten." Aiden's fingers tightened and Lambert whimpered, but was still hard, mouth still open and eager for the raw, deep fucking it was receiving. The effortless submission, the tight, wet heat of Lambert's throat as Aiden's thick cock pistoned into it, was a banquet for the senses. Aiden came with an awed moan, cock pumping its load down the back of an eager throat. He held Lambert's face pressed to his groin until he stopped twitching, and then relinquished him. 

Without a word, Aiden crouched down and removed the cuffs and hog tie. His lover slumped back against his chest, and he spent time stroking and easing him, gentle kisses placed over his neck and face. Lambert gazed up at him in open adoration, floating on a soft haze. Once brown eyes gained some sharpness back, Aiden withdrew. "Go and get dinner sorted. You can take the harness off, but keep the collar." 

The meal was perfect. Worthy of any of the hundreds of high end restaurants Aiden frequented with clients. He ate every morsel and praised Lambert until his ears turned pink and he growled in irritation, bashful but preening. Once the dishwasher was stacked, Aiden took Lambert to bed and made gentle love to him as they had done for the first time at the spa. His lover gasped and clung to him, body pliant and needy, as Aiden's attention made him quake. "Love you, kitten."


	4. Hush, Kitten

Four late nights. _Four._ There was only so much loneliness a man could take. Lambert had needs. _Needs._ Aiden was working a particularly difficult case; something to do with fraud, and… the word liability came up somewhere. All Lambert knew was that he hadn't slept next to his fiance for four nights and there wasn’t going to be a fifth. After a bit of grouching, Aiden agreed to work from home for an afternoon. As seven o’clock in the evening arrived and dinner was tidied away, Lambert began Operation Antagonise into Fussing Me. 

_It started small._

He sat on the sofa, nudged Aiden a bit, stroked his hair, deliberately tripped over the power lead of the laptop so it fell out, used the feather stick to coax Virtute onto the back of the sofa to bat at Aiden’s head, ate a bag of Doritoes _really fucking loudly_ , strummed the tune to ‘Lonely’ by Noah Cyrus on his guitar with accompanying crooning lyrics. You know. _The usual._ He flicked the channel onto MTV to try and rouse him from his studious ‘email face’, but that didn’t work either. 

In the end, Lambert lost his shit, did a running backflip onto the sofa, sprawled across Aiden’s lap - laptop, paperwork, the lot, hit the floor - and growled at him. “What the fuck does a man have to do to get some attention around here?”

“What the _fuck_ , Lambert?” Aiden’s hands lifted up, his eyes wide in surprise. “I swear, if that laptop’s broken, I’ll - well, I’ll be absolutely fucking -.”

“It has an SSD. A bit of concussive force is nothing,” Lambert mumbled, and then narrowed his eyes. _“Love me.”_

“You - I - ,” Aiden rubbed his hands into his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ve had a lot on, and I - .” A hand cupped his cheek, stroking through the stubble on his jaw and into his hair; he leaned into it and closed his eyes. “I get lost in it sometimes, I’m - I’m sorry, Lambert.” He reached across to the arm of the sofa for some papers, but Lambert got there first; he batted them onto the floor with an errant swipe of the hand, one eyebrow cocked; Virtute would be _proud._ “Now you’re just being a pain in the ass.”

“What you gonna’ do about it?” Fingers intertwined over his chest, Lambert cut an irritatingly nonchalant figure, and sniffed dismissively. 

Aiden smirked. _Oh, he understood the game now._ “Obviously four days without my presence has allowed you to become a bit unruly,” he mused. “Perhaps it’s time for us to investigate that paddle we discussed, hm?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lambert rolled off of the sofa onto his hands and knees, then quickly scarpered towards the stairs. He was already halfway up them by the time Aiden had picked his paperwork and laptop from the floor, so called back. “Chop, chop.” 

_Oh, you -_ Aiden was going to make him _grovel_ for that. He arrived in the bedroom to find Lambert shirtless and gazing down at the paddle and a roll of tape. “I bought you those restraints - you know, comfortable, _expensive -_ especially so we didn’t have to use that.” 

“I know, but I can’t get over how sticky it is, but it doesn’t stick to the _skin_. There are so many different applications for it - I really want to _test_ how strong it is. Could I tow a car with it? I mean - .”

Aiden chuckled. “Lambert. Take your trousers and pants off,” he paused. “Now, before we begin, are you sure you don’t want me to use my hand first?”

“I’m not some pussy, come on.” Jeans and pants kicked off, Lambert stretched his arms above his head and rolled his shoulders. Always good to limber up before. Ever since that fucking shoulderstand, Aiden had been folding him like a pretzel. _Lambert was thinking of taking up yoga._

“That's not the point I’m trying to make. It’s just - .”

“Spank me, daddy.” Lambert held his wrists out, hands clasped together.

Aiden blanched. “No. Never. Don’t.” 

“Sorry.” _He wasn’t sorry._

“You’re such a brat,” Aiden huffed and grabbed the tape from the bed. “You nearly broke my laptop, you threw my paperwork on the floor, you got my own _cat_ to attack me, you _tainted_ my television with MTV.” As he rattled off Lambert’s infractions, he could see the heat building in his lover’s skin. The tape was easy enough to use; he wrapped it tightly around Lambert’s clasped hands and then his wrists, before squeezing his fingers. “Still feel this?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Turn around.” Aiden plucked the blindfold from the bedside table and bound it over Lambert’s eyes; he sat the silk just above his ears and gave one of them a light, affectionate tweak. His kitten always looked cute like this. “Now, because you’re new to this, I want to introduce you to a new safety system.”

“Aiden, I don’t need - .”

“Mm, no. You do as you're told and you listen,” his tone held the appropriate level of bite, and Lambert fell silent, so he continued. They were having this conversation when all Lambert had to focus on was his voice. His partner got easily distracted by the prospect of play - especially when there were toys out on the bed. “Every now and then, I will ask you for a traffic light colour. Red, amber or green. Red means you’ve reached your limit and I will rein it in for you to recover; yellow means you’re enjoying yourself, but you are close to meeting your limit and green means you’re comfortable and you’re ready for me to turn it up a notch. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Repeat what I just said.”

Lambert huffed. “Red is ouch, amber is mostly okay but some ouch, green is more ouch please. And what, if I want it to stop completely, it’s the safe word, right?”

“Right.” Aiden looked up at the ceiling in exasperation, but Lambert was practically bouncing on the spot and because he was naked, blindfolded and bound in front of Aiden, he was getting hard already. Perhaps if Aiden was less tired, he’d insist on a verbatim recital, but he couldn’t lie; the prospect of disciplining Lambert and then driving him into the mattress with a good, hard fuck was making him impatient. So Aiden grabbed the paddle, re-familiarising himself with its heft; real leather, with a wide diameter and well-worn handle. It had been a favourite of one of his partners quite some years ago now. Out of all the possibilities - the riding crop, the flogger, the cane - it had been the paddle Lambert settled on. Apparently the others were a bit too ‘Alice Cooper’, whatever the hell _that_ meant. “Alright, kitten. I’m going to guide you over my lap now.”

He took Lambert by the back of the neck and steered him carefully. “On your knees first - there you go, and lean over - good. Already back to being well-behaved, perhaps I might even think about reducing the number of strikes.” Aiden stroked a flat palm down Lambert’s back and finished by squeezing one of the firm cheeks of his ass; his kitten had recently started playing rugby again with the Cambridge veterans team and _phew_ was it paying dividends. His thighs and ass could crush stone, Aiden was certain. “We’ll start with ten. I want you to count them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Lambert wriggled, finding some friction against the side of Aiden’s thigh; he really wasn’t above dry humping Aiden like a fucking dog, and he was fucking well tempted to do it now if he didn’t _\- ow, fuck._ “One.” The paddle made quite an impressive _crack_ as it connected with his backside. The sting wasn’t - _well, it wasn’t actually that nice._ Lambert grit his teeth, and then eased as Aiden soothed a hand over the impact zone. “Two.” He tilted his chin down, jaw set. “Three.” _Crack._ “Four.” He counted every one without fail. 

When Aiden reached ten, he paused. “Lambert, colour?”

“Green.” He didn’t miss a beat and shifted. His erection was completely dead, but that didn’t matter right, because he could feel Aiden getting hard beneath him; it pressed through the fly of his trousers into Lambert’s stomach. This was - Aiden had said this was like the gateway thing for the pain stuff - _maybe Lambert wasn’t doing it right, or -_

“Alright, ten more, a bit harder. Count them.”

Lambert did. His nails bit into his palms. His heart raced and his head hurt more than his backside. This was too close to - it reminded him of - _urgh, fuck_. He didn’t - didn’t _like_ this. _But Aiden did, and Lambert had dragged him away from his work for it, so -_

“Lambert, colour?”

“Green.” 

A brief pause, because Aiden thought he’d just felt Lambert _shake_. “Ten more. Harder still.” 

The paddle came down hard, and Lambert sucked in a breath before he counted the number: twenty-one. _S.E.R.E._ Could deploy S.E.R.E now. _Fuck - twenty-two._ No. This was like - this was like being beaten by - he didn’t - he didn’t like - but _Aiden did. Twenty-three._ His eyes stung and he clenched his jaw against the tremors threatening to spill down the length of his body; he couldn’t disappoint Aiden. _Twenty-four._ This was just the gateway thing - and - _twenty-five._

“Lambert, colour?” Aiden paused.

“ _Green._ ” He tried to keep the stutter from his voice, tried to hide the fact that he was - _fuck, he felt frightened._

“Arrow.” Aiden chucked the paddle away and wrenched Lambert bodily from his lap. Within seconds, the blindfold was on the floor along with the ream of tape. Aiden bundled his lover close to his chest, kicking up the duvet until it draped over Lambert’s shoulders because he was shivering. “Easy. Deep breaths.”

“I’m fine - it’s fine - I’m - ,” Lambert stammered, because this was completely irrational. He’d been beaten worse than that in the last year and a half. Fuck, a druggie had basically curb-stomped him about eighteen months ago. _Fascist prick._ This was completely fucking _irrational_ and now he felt fucking _angry_ , and _miserable._ “I’m sorry. I - .”

“No, no. Don’t be sorry,” Aiden held him tightly and pressed kisses into his hair. “Everything’s okay. The way you’re feeling right now, it’ll pass. Just stay with me, alright? I love you, Lambert. I really do. I love you.”

“It didn’t even hurt that much, it - ,” Lambert swallowed, but in the end just gave up talking. He turned his face into Aiden’s chest and allowed himself to shake for a bit, because it was hurting his neck and shoulders to restrain it.

“Hush, kitten. It’s alright, I’ve got you. You were perfect. You are perfect, in every way, a good boy.” Aiden whispered, brushing his face into Lambert’s and tilting his head back so that he could see those beautiful puppy-dog eyes; they were watery and red. They lay in silence and Aiden focused on his breathing, because Lambert was matching it. The bundle of tension wrapped in his arms eventually began to ease, and slowly Aiden gave him some space to stretch out beneath the blankets. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Look at me, Lambert. Don’t hide,” Aiden tilted his chin up again. “Talk me through what you were feeling, please.”

“It’s - uh - it’s fuckin’ stupid, s’nothing.”

“No,” a shake of the head, “that’s not how this works. I’ve told you this. We play, and then we discuss. And it’s harder if it hasn’t gone how we want, but it’s even more important to do so.”

“Uh, it - I - _fuck,_ ” Lambert scrubbed his palms over his face. “I just kept thinking about the times my fuckwit of a father took a belt to me, and any other kitchen implement, item of furniture or fucking weapon he could lay his hands on. And - I know it - I knew it was you, but - .” A quiet growl. “It didn’t even hurt that much, it was just - my head is - .”

“Hey, it’s alright. We all have different edges. Places outside our comfort zone. Sometimes it’s fun to play with them, and other times our minds and bodies place those boundaries for a reason.”

“But you were getting hard on it, I didn’t want - .”

“I’ll just stop you right there,” Aiden leaned back and folded his arms. “I get off on my partner enjoying themselves under my control. I don’t particularly care what I’m doing. If anything, with you I prefer making you sob with pleasure, because you’re basically just one big nerve-ending.” A heavy sigh. “I need to be able to trust you to call it off if you’re unhappy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

Lambert opened his mouth, and then clicked it shut again. 

“Come here.” Aiden slipped an arm around Lambert’s shoulders and pulled him back in for an embrace. The kiss that followed took its natural course until Lambert was pinned beneath him, held in place only by the press of his hips and chest. His kitten found comfort in proximity, in affection, and Aiden gave it more than willingly. He shed his clothes when they were nudged at irritably, and slid a hand behind Lambert’s head to keep their mouths locked as he rocked their hardened cocks together. There was no glorious climax, not for either of them, but it was still good, intimate; they ended up with limbs tangled together and dozing in a blissful half-state.

An hour passed, maybe two. Lambert rolled onto his side and tucked his bicep under his head. “What’s your edge?”

“Hm?” Aiden blinked.

“You said everyone has edges. What’s yours?”

“The ones I don’t like to play with are knives - well, anything to do with drawing blood,” he rubbed his eyes. “Breath play, and public humiliation are both things I’ve enjoyed playing with in the past. The first because it’s quite a lot of control. Life or death, in fact. And the second, because it’s just… exciting.”

“Hm,” Lambert scratched at his beard thoughtfully and then flopped onto his back. “You can choke me if you like.”

Aiden chuckled. “And we’re back to doing things because I like it. Lambert, I feel like we have the same conversations all the - .”

“Alright, alright,” he huffed. “The second thing. That’s like… what, trying to make me come in public, and me trying not to, or - ?”

“Well, it can be. There are lots of different facets to it, but that sounds like an interesting proposition.”

“It does?” Lambert perked up, because, _actually - yeah -_ “So, how would it work?”

Aiden hummed. “Well, there is a new toy I’ve been wanting to get…”

***

This wasn’t the first function Lambert had been forced to attend. Maybe _forced_ was a bit strong. Threatened gently? He wasn’t sure. Aiden enjoyed showing him off. Something to do with his ‘rugged aesthetic’. Only Aiden could get away with saying shit like that, and even then it was a close call. Lambert knew he brushed up well though, and the food was often worthy of the Michelin star or two attached to the chef that made it, even if he couldn’t partake in the outrageously expensive champagne passed around like corner shop wine. Aiden was always frustrated and horny after, which was an added bonus. Good food, good sex _, winning combination._ But as he stepped out of the bathroom, Lambert realised there was going to be more to _this_ party than the previous, because Aiden was standing next to the bed with a bottle of lube in one hand and a rather impressive butt plug in the other. A butt plug with which Lambert was _very_ familiar.

He’d walked around with it for almost an entire day a couple of weekends ago. It was connected to Aiden’s phone and he could activate it from anywhere. _In the world_. One of the many toys bought to make work trips more bearable. What could be more fun than making your fiance come from a thousand miles away? The final push to buy it had been their ‘failed’ play session. It had three vibration settings, and the third one could reduce Lambert to his knees. Literally. And when Aiden finally pulled it free and replaced it with his cock, Lambert’s vision had almost whited out from how good it was. Sensitive, strung out; he’d been barely coherent by the time Aiden had finished filling him. Lambert hugged his towel a little tighter, “You can’t be serious.”

“Very,” Aiden jerked his chin at the bed. “Tonight is going to be horrendously taxing. The people are insufferable. Knowing I’ve got your wet little hole all ready for me when we get back to the hotel room will make it tolerable.”

Those words shot straight to the pit of Lambert's stomach; even the _idea_ of being wet and ready for Aiden to just take when he was ready was enough for his cock to twitch with interest. _Shit_. When had he become such a fucking needy - ? “Aiden. If you, I - ,” Lambert growled and stalked around the side of the bed. “If I come in the middle of the fucking hors d'oeuvres, I’ll - .”

“You know better than to come without my permission. Bend over.” He only had to wait a beat, because Lambert _did_ know better, and he _wanted_ to please. The flush up his chest betrayed his excitement. Hands braced on the bed, Lambert tugged his towel free and spread his legs. The brush of Aiden’s fingers made him gasp, which became an all out moan when the touch morphed into a firm, indulgent massage around his rim. The show of supplication was pleasing and Aiden purred encouragement. “Mm. So good. You just want to please me, don’t you? You’re going to be well-behaved. You’re not going to come. Not going to make any noise once we’re at the party.”

“No. Will be good.” Lambert hated the way he whined when Aiden gentled him, but the thrill it sent up his spine was worth the minor humiliation. Two fingers pushed into him and he grunted, knees bracing on the edge of the bed as his body adjusted to the burn; the _fucking amazing burn_. “A-ahh, fuck.” Aiden crooked his fingers and rubbed his prostate. Working him up for no fucking reason. _Bastard._ “ _Aiden_ , please, don’t… I - .”

“Mmhm,” Aiden continued as Lambert canted his hips and pushed back onto his fingers, desperate for it despite his protest. It was tempting to make him come, but then that would detract from their evening. “I think that’s enough.” A quiet, disappointed whine as he withdrew his fingers, followed by a grunt as he pressed the plug against Lambert’s hole. “Relax.” Aiden slid it in slowly. Nearly two inches at its widest and sitting just shy of four inches in, it was an _insignificant_ intrusion compared to what awaited Lambert at the end of the night, but it needed to be subtle enough for Lambert to walk normally once his body had adjusted. Aiden twisted it carefully into place and Lambert’s hips bucked away. “Easy. You’re doing so well, kitten.” Stroking gentle circles with just his fingertips, Aiden leaned over and placed a kiss on the small of Lambert’s back. “Good boy. Now get dressed.”

Progress was achingly slow. Lambert pulled his clothes on while casting Aiden the occasional furtive glance. Every time he bent down or twisted his hips he felt the plug move, nudging against his prostate, stretching his rim at different angles. Lambert chose a simple black suit with an accompanying white shirt, and he tightened the tie at his throat, he grumbled. “Please don’t do it when I’m talking to someone.” It was worth a try, even if the smirk he received informed him that _nothing_ was off the table, and it just incensed him. _Fine._ He wouldn’t cave. Lambert had twelve years of military discipline to call on to keep his head if necessary. Just for _that_ smirk, he wasn’t going to give Aiden the satisfaction of watching him crumble.

They took the BMW into London. The drive was uneventful because Aiden was occupied with the road, and Lambert flicked through social media. Mason had just been allowed Instagram - Lambert wasn’t _particularly_ happy about it, and had forbidden Twitter, TikTok and SnapChat - but it was an easy way for him to catch up, with the solemn promise that he would not comment and/or like any pictures, thus embarrassing Mason and causing irreparable damage to his ‘street cred’ (which was also not a phrase people used anymore). A few pictures of his son at Rugby training, another one in the playground at school. Half term was coming up and Aiden had booked them a holiday in Cornwall. Hiking, zip lining, tree-climbing, surfing, canoeing. It was going to be great. Aiden watched Lambert's soft wonder from the corner of his eye and couldn't help but smile as warm affection blossomed in his chest.

The dinner was being hosted at the Corinthia in Westminster. It was just around the corner from Aiden's offices, and they left the car in the underground car park. Aiden had booked them a room anyway; the facilities were outstanding, apparently.

When they arrived at the hotel, the concierge took their bags to their room, and the hall was already packed - they were ‘fashionably’ late, _like that was even a fucking thing_ \- and Aiden was immediately swept up by a group of very good-looking socialites. All charm and flare, Aiden dealt with it flawlessly, even though Lambert _knew_ his skin was crawling beneath that impeccably tailored suit.

For a while, Lambert felt like an unwelcome stray, with the looks he received ranging from curious to disapproving. Aiden held onto his elbow and pushed fruit juice into his hand while introducing him to various people, all carbon copies of each other, with vacuous smiles and exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Oh, an engineer, how delightful,” one woman crooned, and Lambert glanced at Aiden for support. “Which company do you work for?”

“I’m a car mechanic.” His reply was terse, and he looked down at the drink in his hands.

“He’s too modest. Lambert was a member of the SAS until only a couple of years ago,” Aiden brushed his fingers lightly over the back of Lambert’s hand. Permission to head off in search of space if he needed it. “He’s enjoying a slower pace and semi-retirement for the moment. Well deserved, I think you’ll agree.”

“Oh, yes, very.” She was still eyeing him with interest, which was too much, and Lambert excused himself to the edge of the room. Aiden hadn’t started playing his game yet. It was only a matter of time, and Lambert was reminded with every step he took, every _position_ he tried to sit comfortably in, that he was at Aiden’s mercy. _It was making him hard._ The thought of the humiliation if he _moaned_ or, fuck, if he actually came in the middle of dinner. _And yet…_

Their host - some extremely wealthy business tycoon - called them to their evening meal and Lambert took his seat at Aiden’s right. The food was excellent, as expected, but Lambert kept glancing at Aiden's lap, because he could see his phone resting face down on his thigh. _Not in his pocket._ The social anxiety was mixing with the heat of his arousal, and Lambert had to head outside for air as the plates for the seafood starter were removed. 

As his palms braced on the wall outside and he inspected some smokers below, Aiden decided it was time for some fun. The first pulses made Lambert tense up, which just intensified _everything._ He huffed in tepid spring air permeated with tobacco smoke, sounding like a woman giving birth, and let out a wavery sigh. When the waiters on their break looked up in concern, he steeled himself, “Too much beer too quickly.” _Fuck._ And he knew that was just the first setting.

The hall felt stuffy when he returned to his seat, and the main meal had been laid out on the table. Aiden smiled at him - _all innocent, the prick_ \- and Lambert picked up his knife and fork. Every time Aiden checked his phone, Lambert bunched up, but he managed to get through to dessert before Aiden set it off again. _Lambert didn’t even see him move, what the fuck._ As the tremors spasmed up through his body, Lambert squeezed his spoon until his knuckles bleached white and swallowed thickly. He didn’t _dare_ look at Aiden, because he knew seeing the look of lust and adoration in those bright green eyes _would_ make him moan. He jammed the handle of the spoon into his palm, trying to focus on the minor pain rather than the overwhelming urge to roll his hips. The shameful heat creeped up his back, and it just made him _harder._

The vibrations stopped and Lambert almost collapsed in his chair. He poked at the creme brulee, but found that his appetite for food was gone, replaced instead with a burning hunger for Aiden and the thick cock he knew awaited him. 

It didn’t get easier as the night went on. Aiden was _too good_ at catching him by surprise. He ended up taking his jacket off and folding it over his arm because his erection was now _far_ too obvious without it. The waiter blinked at him in shock when he barked at him for trying to take it to the cloakroom. One particularly memorable moment was at the drinks table and having to cover a spectacular fumble as tripping over a bit of upturned carpet - “I could totally sue you know, you should - sort that,” his voice terribly high-pitched - and Aiden saw, casting him a quirked eyebrow.

Sweat began to accumulate under his arms and at the base of his back, and Lambert headed out for fresh air again. It was a hot evening, and there were people everywhere, so he couldn’t seek relief. Aiden decided to crank up the peril and appeared nearby. To an outsider, his touch was perfectly innocent; he drew up behind Lambert, pressing their bodies together and placed a chaste kiss upon his jaw. It was fairly late in the evening now; everyone was becoming more amorous, so Aiden’s affection wasn’t out of place. He purred, voice thick with desire. “I can practically _smell_ you. You’re fucking delicious.” 

“Mmm,” Lambert couldn’t breathe. Aiden swayed his hips forward just a touch and Lambert could feel the hardness of his cock down the leg of his slacks as it brushed across the curve of his ass and thighs. “Aiden - .”

“Don’t make a noise. Don’t crumble. You’ve been doing so well.” Aiden pulled his phone from his pocket and brought it round to Lambert’s chest, pretending to show him a picture. The app was open. Another audible gulp and Aiden tucked his smile into Lambert’s shoulder as his thumb tapped the screen. His lover’s entire body solidified. Lambert held his breath, and let out the quietest whimper. His hands shook, and Aiden knew his toes would be curling in his shoes. One of the cuter ways Lambert reacted to overwhelming pleasure was to try and curl up like a hedgehog. “Want another drink?” Aiden clicked the plug off and tucked his phone away, hand settling at Lambert’s waist.

“Please.” _Everything_ was too much now. The touch of Aiden’s hand on his damp shirt, the proximity and _heat_ of his hips - even if Lambert's head was probably just making that up - the brush of his breath, accented with expensive red wine, against Lambert’s neck. _Fuck._ He would come right here at the lightest touch.

“Off you go then.”

_Bastard._

Lambert did as he was told and walked stiffly through the hall. Aiden grinned and sipped his wine. Just another hour. That was all _he_ could last. Years of careful moderation had taught him an impressive level of control over his baser urges, but when it came to Lambert, Aiden found it… _difficult._ He wanted to have him all the time. Since their failed session - not that he used that terminology with Lambert, it was too damaging - Aiden had felt a low, simmering anxiety. He didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to get it wrong, not with Lambert. He was too precious. Too important. But this was going well, Lambert was enjoying it. He must like the adrenaline rush. _Of course he did._ What could Aiden expect from a man who used to jump out of planes and defuse explosives for a living?

Several colleagues wandered over to him with more drinks and _scintillating_ conversation, but Aiden’s mind was already in bed with his fiance. He triggered the plug twice more. Once when Lambert was at the bar, and Aiden watched him splutter his drink and flush bright red, and the second time while he was talking with a short, squat man who ‘was going to join the army, but flat feet, you know’. Lambert excused himself hastily and stumbled out into the hall. Forty-five minutes. Aiden’s patience was exhausted.

He followed Lambert into the corridor outside the hall, plug still active, and found him hiding away in the hall just before the toilets. “And where do you think you’re going?”

“Please, Aiden, I - ahh, it needs to come out - I’m - ,” - _about to come._ Lambert gripped his own cock and squeezed - _hard -_ but it did little to ease it. “I - I’m sorry - .” The air was thick. Everything seemed to be happening more slowly. He felt a low, burning shame at his state, but - he… liked it. _Fuck._ He liked it. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears at a rabbit’s pace, and the basest part of his mind wanted Aiden to tear his trousers down and fuck him here. In front of everyone. All his rich friends could watch Aiden breed his pet, and watch that very same pet come all over himself. Listen to him cry, whimper and beg for Aiden’s cock. _Fucking hell._

“Come here.” So low, quiet, but it drew Lambert to him as if he were on a tether. “I’m disappointed.” 

Lambert whimpered, eyes wide.

“I’ll exact your penance now.”

 _For a horrible, brilliant moment Lambert thought he meant right there._ But his logical self was fucking relieved when Aiden grabbed him by the elbow and hauled him out the alcove and into the lift. Aiden pinned him to the side with only the weight of his eyes, and flicked his hand nonchalantly when the doors opened on their floor.

Lambert didn’t really register the card key in the door. He was a walking nerve. The whisper of the air conditioning across his sweat-soaked skin made him shiver, and then Aiden was on him. The buttons on his shirt skittered across the polished wooden floors as Aiden tore through it, and he cried out as eager lips seared over his skin with fierce kisses. Lambert’s hands were shaking uncontrollably; he barely managed Aiden’s belt, and then had his efforts slapped away. “Stop. Just give yourself to me.” Snarled as Aiden _bit_ him on the slope of the shoulder. Lambert gasped and his cock leaked a liberal dribble of precum through his already sodden boxers. _Fuck,_ That. He - _fuck -_

Aiden shed his jacket and wrenched off his belt. He lashed it around Lambert’s wrists and forced him down onto the bed. With feral urgency, he yanked Lambert’s trousers and boxers off and shoved his thighs apart. His lover yelped as the plug pulled free; the corkscrew around the neck had kept enough lubricant at Lambert’s hole, but Aiden still pushed his palm against Lambert’s mouth as he pressed up behind him. Aiden's cock sat in his cleft, heavy and throbbing, “Lick it. It’s the only thing you’re getting, so do it properly.” He rutted his hips slowly, impatient, as Lambert laved his hand with saliva, until his mouth and beard were a mess of it. Aiden smoothed his palm down his cock and then finally pushed his head into the fluttering, tight muscles of Lambert’s rim.

“Aah-ahh!” Lambert brayed into the room, his back arching and hands kneading at the expensive silken sheets, even as Aiden gripped the belt lashed around his wrists and kept them pinned above his head. “Nnngh.” _So much._ Aiden was always _so much_. Lambert spread his legs over the mattress as Aiden fucked into him with forceful, possessive pistons of his hips. The burn, the relentless swell of pleasure, the feeling of helplessness - Lambert couldn’t breathe, nothing else existed, just Aiden’s voice, his huge prick, the consuming need to surrender everything to him - 

“Oh, fuck, Lambert. You’re so fucking good - and you’re mine - were you thinking about my cock all evening? I know you were - you needy thing - I could see it - I know you wanted me to fuck you in the hallway.”

“Yes, Aiden - p - please.”

“Did you want everyone to see? Did you want them to know you were mine?”

“Yeah, yeah - fuck - aahh!”

“Wanted them to watch me breed you - make you moan and beg for my cock - aah, _fuck_ \- if you’d come, I would’ve punished you in front of them - made you suck my cock, on your knees at my feet - you would’ve liked that, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck, _yes._ ”

Lambert was so overwrought that it took only a few firm strokes of Aiden’s hand to bring him off, and he came _hard._ His vision whited out and he shuddered as his cock soaked the sheets beneath him. Aiden didn’t stop, he gripped Lambert’s ass and spread it for the final deep thrusts, watching the length of his shaft abuse Lambert’s red, swollen hole until his orgasm broke free and he pumped him full. 

Panting and blissed out, Lambert gazed up the length of the bed. His entire body _hummed_ in contentment. He flopped unhelpfully when Aiden undid the belt at his wrists and then pulled off the rest of his clothes; his limbs splayed as Aiden climbed over him and pressed reverent kisses to his neck and chest, whispering ‘I love yous’ and ‘such a good boy’ against his skin.

_Yeah. I’m the best boy._

The room was cool and Aiden’s skin prickled as his sweat dried. He felt drunk, but not from alcohol. It was that hazy space again, and he barely managed the coordination to get Lambert cleaned up and tucked into bed. He propped bottled water on the bedside table as he slipped in next to him, and then blinked as Lambert tugged insistently. “Are you okay?”

“Kiss me.” Barely loud enough to register as a whisper.

He didn’t need asking twice. Aiden leaned over Lambert and worshipped those beautiful, full lips with a passionate kiss. Lambert opened eagerly for it, legs and arms wrapping around Aiden as if he wanted to meld them together. When they drew apart, Lambert nuzzled beneath Aiden’s chin with a contented sigh. “You’re a fucking beast.” Said with blissful laudation.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They got some funny looks from their next door neighbour the following morning. Lambert just smirked right back at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not in the right order, but I can't get Lambden out of my head. We shall return to our regular schedule for the next two chapters of Geraskiel.
> 
> And if you want to roll like Lambert and Aiden, here's the toy they used - [Hush by Lovense.](https://www.lovense.com/vibrating-butt-plug)


	5. Flying Without Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: use of a homophobic slur (not by the boys, obviously).

“Have you ever been to a match with Eskel?” Geralt asked Jaskier quietly as he grabbed the front door keys from the lamp table.

“No. Our connection is more through the arts, I have to admit. When Lambert and Eskel started to discuss set pieces and plays, I just tuned out and thought about David Bowie,” Jaskier replied, shrugging on his jacket. “Should I be worried?’ A wry smile.

“You’re in for a treat.” Geralt smirked right back, but refused to say anymore despite a persistent amount of prodding.

It was the end of the season, the ground was getting hard and the weather warm; Lambert had _finally_ permitted them to go and see him play, and Aiden was driving so the rest of them could indulge in the club bar. The grey BMW pulled up outside just as Eskel bounced - yes, _bounced_ \- down the stairs. Jaskier had never seen him look so boyishly excited. “Ready?” He was wearing an Under Armour branded t-shirt that he probably didn’t even _register_ was nicely fitted around his chest and shoulders, and Jaskier only nodded mutely as he watched him snatch his jacket from the back of the sofa and head out the front door.

Geralt cast him a sly glance. “It’ll get better.” 

_Oh, Jaskier did so love it when Geralt became his partner in lechery._ He was so very good at it.

As they piled into the back of Aiden’s car and Jaskier did his best to bunch himself up between the two big sets of shoulders either side of him, Lambert glanced at them in the rearview mirror. He was already dressed in his kit; a tight, red shirt with cotton shorts and a skin-tight underlayer that poked out from beneath them. “Behave, or I’ll ban you for life.” To Jaskier’s amazement, he was looking at _Eskel_ who lifted his hands in placating surrender.

It was a short drive to the outskirts of Cambridge and the club was exactly as Jaskier expected; a large, two-tiered pavilion with a block of changing facilities and showers attached to the side. It was shabby, smelled faintly of sweat and wet mud, and was already packed to the rafters with people. The first and second team were both playing today, with the ‘minis’ - Jaskier learned that these were the youngest players - on a different pitch. Lambert had been ‘promoted’ from the third team to the Cambridge Wanderers - the second - due to his pace and fitness level, which meant he was needed for the team talk beforehand; he gave Aiden a kiss on the cheek and then disappeared into the changing rooms.

“Alright, I have absolutely _no idea_ how to play rugby,” Jaskier murmured to Aiden as he queued up with him at the bar; they had dispatched Eskel and Geralt to wrangle them some seating. “Tell me the basics?”

Aiden grinned. “Hmm. Well, we’re about to watch thirty men wrestle in the mud for ninety minutes,” he beckoned the bar man over and placed their order before he continued. “That’s all you really need to know.”

Jaskier had always been slightly _in awe_ of Aiden. He was always _impeccably_ dressed, even when he was in a pair of casual jeans and shirt. His hair was styled, his beard - when he had one - carefully maintained. He even _smelled_ nice, which was an odd thing to notice, but there you are. Not to mention the air of authority he seemed to carry - quiet, self-assured - that made something inside Jaskier turn to jelly. If he hadn’t already been thoroughly committed to his two beautiful partners and Aiden to his, he wouldn’t have minded a nice evening in his company. _And a night._

They carried the drinks out onto the bottom level of the pavilion. Eskel and Geralt were seated in a front row of chairs, and Aiden passed their pints of lager over their shoulders. “What position does he play?” Jaskier asked as he flopped down to Eskel’s left.

“He was the fly half when we played together.” Geralt murmured.

“Oh, like - umm - Johnny Wilkinson, right?” Jaskier beamed, proud, and Eskel cast him a broad grin. 

“He’s outside-center now. They had him out on the wing, but he has a good mind for strategy and they want him more involved in the set pieces towards the beginning,” Aiden sat down next to Jaskier and placed his pint of coke beneath his chair. “He still has more pace than their wingers though, which is always slightly embarrassing.”

“Know much about Canterbury?” Eskel sipped his drink, head tilting to eye some of the spectators that had turned out in the black and yellow livery of the visiting team.

“They play dirty,” Aiden said, following Eskel’s eyes. “Apparently last season one of their forwards got banned for sticking his fingers up the asses of the opposite team, and their scrum half likes to dump tackle. The referee is quite hot on it though; she’s refereed a couple for the Wanderers now.”

Jaskier blinked. “She? As in - ?”

“Yes, legitimate female.” Aiden smirked. 

“How does that work? I saw some of these men. They’re basically seven foot tall, half neanderthal.” Jaskier was, obviously, not a misogynist, but that didn’t mean _others_ weren’t. 

“Well, firstly, she’s a little spitfire - .”

“Arguing with officials gets you a match ban in rugby,” Geralt chimed in. “Not like football when you can front up to the referee and not be punished. You face serious repercussions if you back chat here.”

“- and rugby tends to attract a better calibre of individual.” Aiden finished, just as a cheer rose up from near the changing rooms and the teams jogged out, side-by-side, onto the pitch for their pre-match warm up. Jaskier sat up in his seat and craned to catch a glimpse of their man, but was rather side-tracked by all of the finery on display. 

Tight backsides and thick thighs in cotton shorts, and _why were their jerseys so tight?_ Jaskier pawed at Eskel and then looked back at him with wide eyes. “Oh ho ho, holy shit, where has this sport been all my life?” He twisted up onto his knees; Eskel batted him reproachfully on the backside, but the only person _not_ enjoying the eye candy was Geralt, who was rather taken with a border collie that had wandered over to sniff at the ground nearby. He beckoned it over with a quiet tut and it plonked its rear down next to him in eager anticipation of fuss. Geralt was more than happy to oblige. 

“Ahh, yes, now I remember why I joined the university team.” Aiden grinned, and then leaned back in his chair because there was only _one_ ass he was looking for, and it was currently running plays at the far end of the pitch. The warm up lasted around fifteen minutes and then the referee and her linesmen walked out onto the pitch. She could be no bigger than five foot nothing, with ruddy cheeks and a shock of red hair, but Jaskier could practically _feel_ her ferocity when she blew the whistle and the two hulking captains bounded over to her like well-trained puppies. 

Canterbury won the coin toss and chose to receive, so Cambridge’s captain carried the ball back to his half and handed it to their number ten. “Number ten’s the fly half. He’ll kick all the conversions too.” Aiden leaned across to inform Jaskier, who nodded gratefully. The whistle blew, the ball booted high into the air and Cambridge surged forward in a single line. 

The first contact made Jaskier physically flinch in his seat. One of Cambridge’s _huge_ forwards took down a more slender runner on the edge, but apparently this was all fine and they began _piling over_ each other. “Oh my - I swear it wasn’t this vicious when we did it in P.E.”

“That’s called a ruck,” Aiden offered. “And now that Cambridge have got the ball, Canterbury have been _turned over_.”

“How is that safe? How - oh my God, Lambert’s on the bottom of that - how is he still standing?” Jaskier’s eyes widened as he saw Lambert crawl out from a pile of men _much_ thicker than he was and bounce merrily to his feet with a smug little grin on his face. He returned to the attacking line and sprinted forward to receive the ball from a player with _number eight_ on their shirt once it’d been dug out of the pile of men on the floor.

“Lots of rules to make it safe. Rucker has to be on their feet, can’t dive in off your feet or in from the side, the person on the floor has to release the ball to avoid a wrestling match. Everything in rugby is about safety.”

“Yes, totally safe.” Jaskier flinched again as Lambert got absolutely wiped out, only to spring to his feet moments later when his team cleared the ball again. It was swift and energetic; play hadn’t paused once since the initial whistle had blown. 

As the game progressed - Cambridge scored three converted tries, and Canterbury one - Geralt and Eskel began absolutely _powering_ through the lager. In fact, Jaskier was pretty certain Eskel was just knocking pints back in one mouthful. He also started fidgeting in his seat, and eventually gave up sitting altogether to prowl the edge of the field.

“Geralt, did you see that scrum? They’re not fuckin’ binding properly. Dragging it down.” Arms folded, then hands planted on his hips, and then he was prowling again. Jaskier had never seen him _quite_ so energetic, and when Lambert ran in a fourth try he roared with the rest of the crowd, bouncing up and down with his hands in the air. Geralt grinned broadly and openly, also on his sixth lager. From experience, Jaskier knew Geralt would become cuddly and _giggly_ \- not that he would use such a term with his lovely white wolf - when he was drunk. Eskel… well, it remained to be seen. He’d never actually seen him on more than the odd bottle of beer or fifth of whiskey.

Eskel disappeared down to the pitch permanently and began talking animatedly with some of the other spectators, growling and cussing when a call didn’t go Cambridge’s way. Eventually he drew the ire of one of the linesmen, who told him to back off the touchline. Geralt left his seat to go and temper Eskel’s enthusiasm before he got banished inside the clubhouse, leaving Aiden and Jaskier lounging in the plastic chairs.

“You know, if Eskel wasn’t already taken, I would be convincing Lambert to invite him over.” Aiden murmured, head tilting towards Jaskier with a sly smirk.

“Oh would you now?” Jaskier returned it right back. “He’s fairly high maintenance.”

“Have you met Lambert?” 

Jaskier chuckled. “Mm, fair enough,” he paused. “He’s really happy with you, you know? I mean, I know you saw him when you first started dating, you must see how much better he’s feeling. Sometimes I worry that I’m not having the same effect on Eskel and Geralt…” _Because it was hard._ Jaskier didn’t really have anyone he could speak to about it. Triss, obviously, but she saw it purely from a clinical point of view. She didn’t have to hold them when they shook, or watch their eyes go dim when something took them _back_ there. She didn’t have to listen to Eskel being sick when his medication wore off because his body was unable to deal with it in any other way, or watch Geralt disappear inside his head, not saying a word for _days_ sometimes. But Aiden. _Aiden_ did. He saw it all. Dealt with the same. So, selfishly, Jaskier sought some kind of… validation. Some confirmation that he wasn’t just shouting into the void, and that he was actually of some use to his two wonderful partners.

“Oh, you see him on his good days,” Aiden sighed. “He has bad days. Really bad days. Last week he spent an entire afternoon just slumped against the fig tree in the garden with his guitar in his lap. I think he played maybe two songs and just spent the rest of the time plucking aimlessly at the strings.”

“How do you pull him out of it?”

“Love, time and an understanding that _I am_ good for him. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that, especially when he growls and bites back,” Aiden stooped to pick up his drink. “What are you struggling with?”

“Oh, uh, nothing in particular. I just - I want to be able to - I - .”

“You want to fix them.” Aiden said it so bluntly that Jaskier looked at him, aghast. He saw only understanding reflected back though. “Well, you can’t, Jaskier. They fix themselves. You just need to hand them the tools sometimes. Remember, we’ve only been here for a fraction of the time. They’ve managed to get themselves this far. The best we can do is just make the journey a bit more pleasant and offer comfort where we can.”

Jaskier nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Aiden tilted his head and watched Geralt throw an arm around Eskel’s shoulders as the latter pointed madly at something that offended his sensibilities on the pitch. “So, tell me. I’ve been dying to know, because I think Lambert’s pulling my leg; is Eskel really a bottom?”

The cider in Jaskier’s mouth went straight back into its plastic cup, and his eyebrows shot towards his hairline. Well, if _Aiden -_ elegant, well-mannered and educated - wanted to go there. “Yes. He prefers it,” - _rides like a well-trained jockey -_ “I think Geralt’s interested, but he’s a bit… well, he’s shy. It’s hard to tell with Geralt, sometimes. If he doesn’t want to talk about something, he just says ‘hmm’ and wanders off. Literally. Just walks away.”

“Well, damn, looks like I’m making breakfast for the next month of Sundays,” Aiden sighed. “There’s an easy way you can get Geralt over that.”

“Oh, tell me your ways, sensei.” Jaskier gathered his knees up to his chest, because Aiden had just gone up a few places in Jaskier’s list of role models. Successful, impeccably dressed gay man with a wealth of knowledge in everything carnal and beyond? Jaskier _aspired_ to that by the time _he_ was thirty-six.

“Obviously, you’ll need to discuss this with Eskel first, but if you tie him up, you and Geralt can use him as a sex toy for the evening. Put a cock ring on him so he’ll last,” he kept his voice low, because there were still a few spectators within earshot. “Trust me, the feeling of being in control will overwrite any feelings of embarrassment or anxiety. Geralt strikes me as a man who might need that extra scaffold. And then you can cut Eskel loose and let him get his revenge if you so wish. I imagine he could throw you two around like ragdolls.”

Jaskier dragged his eyes away from Aiden to his two drunken idiots carousing on the touchline. Geralt had a permanent hold on Eskel now because several times he had almost lurched onto the pitch, arms flailing. However, Jaskier was no longer on the grounds of Cambridge RFC, but at home in Eskel’s bed with some rope, and - _oh fuck._

“Thank you for that imagery, Aiden.”

“You’re welcome. I think it’s my round, although I’ve lost track. Cider, is it?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The referee called half time. Cambridge were in the lead - forty to twenty-seven. And Eskel was well and truly on his way to a cruel hangover the following morning. That didn’t stop him necking one more in the fifteen minute break. As they returned to the pitch, he grabbed Jaskier and hauled him in for a _crushing_ hug. “Love you, Jas. I really do.”

 _Oh no-o-o. They were both cuddly drunks. What an absolute shame._ Jaskier buried his face in that solid chest and wrapped his arms around Eskel’s waist. “Love you too. You need to calm down on the pitch though, or you’re going to get told off.”

“Alright,” he purred, and buried a kiss in Jaskier’s hair. “I’ll be a good boy. Promise.”

 _Oh, for -_. Eskel could be forgiven for he had not heard his conversation with Aiden, but that didn’t stop Jaskier from flushing a nice rosy pink; thankfully, his sozzled veteran didn’t seem to notice and loped off with Geralt back to the touchline as the referee blew the whistle to resume. The second half of the match was a little more fraught than the first. There had clearly been some tense team talks in the Canterbury dressing room, because tackles were more vicious and rucks more ferocious.

With ten minutes to go, one of the huge forwards barged into Lambert and smashed him to the ground - shoulder barge, arms wrapped high briefly, and then no safe descent. The whistle blew immediately, and the two teams began squaring up; Canterbury pulled the perpetrator away and the referee summoned the captains with a bark. Her orders were clear: _reinstate discipline, I’m sending him off, it doesn’t happen again._ It took all of Geralt’s strength to hold Eskel back on the sidelines. “That was fuckin’ illegal! You two-bit fuckin’ bastard! You coulda’ killed him! I’ll fuckin’ - .” Lambert rose from the floor and rolled his shoulder, but otherwise seemed unharmed, and the bear spitting fire and brimstone on his behalf calmed down.

Jaskier glanced across at Aiden, who’d immediately gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “You alright?”

“Yes, fine. I’ll have to kiss it better later.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will.”

***

The game concluded. Victory to Cambridge. The teams exchanged cheers and, to Jaskier’s surprise, Lambert sought out the player that had dump-tackled him… to shake his hand. Aiden really hadn’t been joking about the different calibre of sportsman. 

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the clubhouse. Food was served by the committee members, and Jaskier was thoroughly enamoured when all the players returned from the showers in slacks, shirts and ties; it was club etiquette, apparently. Their neat attire conflicted with the scrapes, cuts and bruises that riddled their faces, hands and arms. Aiden swept Lambert to him straight away. “Shoulder?”

“S’bit swollen, physio’s okay with it,” he grinned, lopsided, and then was immediately swamped by Eskel. “ _Fuck,_ I heard you from the sidelines. What did I tell you about behaving?”

“I was -,” Eskel glanced between Aiden, Jaskier and Geralt, then re-evaluated his defence, “rightfully concerned?”

“Yeah, alright. Buy me a J2O and I’ll forgive you.”

It was a pleasant afternoon of inane chatter, easy affection and a late season game on the many big televisions dotted around the bar. Lambert was clearly quite popular amongst his team mates, and left occasionally to stand with groups of grizzled looking players who laughed and teased. The clubs didn’t need to be separated, and yellow-black shirts mixed with red-yellow jerseys in easy camaraderie. Jaskier was almost sad to leave the musty clubhouse behind. On top of the pleasant bubble of merriment, Aiden gave him his number - “in case you need to talk” - and Jaskier was left feeling all warm and content. This was his family now. This kind of afternoon was - and always would be - the norm.

As they walked through the carpark, a small group of men decided to take issue with the amorous kisses and embraces they’d seen that afternoon. “Thank fuck the fags are going home.”

Lambert stopped dead and looked over his shoulder. _Canterbury colours._ Aiden gripped his hand tightly. “Just leave it.”

A brief silence followed. Lambert’s eyes flickered from Aiden’s barely concealed discomfort, to Eskel’s confused hurt, to Jaskier’s awkward shuffle, and then to Geralt’s… righteous fury. _Can always count on you, fluffykins._ Lambert hummed, “If they hit me first, it’s self defence, right?”

“Lambert - .” Aiden growled in warning, and then sighed when those big puppy-dog eyes gazed passively back. He was going to do this, wasn’t he? And short of knocking him out and sitting on him, Aiden wasn’t going to stop it. “Palmer v. R in ‘71, amongst others, _it is both good law and good sense that a man who is attacked may defend himself. It is both good law and good sense that he may do, but only do, what is reasonably necessary._ The key term here is reasonable, Lambert. _"_

“Oh, you make me feel all fucking dirty when you quote statue at me,” Lambert _licked_ Aiden’s lower lip, and then turned to saunter off in the direction of the offending assholes. “Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t need to be all surly to get my number, you’re just my type. Come here, gorgeous.” Lambert got right up the guy’s face, leading with his hips, hand reaching out to grab a handful of ass. The expected punch came quite swiftly after that. Lambert let it glance off his jaw and staggered just for show, before launching in with an earth-shattering one of his own. Geralt piled in moments later as two more decided to join the fray, and then Eskel jogged over too.

Jaskier covered his eyes. “Oh, god, a brawl?”

“No, not a brawl,” Aiden murmured. “Wording’s important. You see, Lambert reasonably believed that man was asking for his number, and upon reciprocating the affection, he was then assaulted. He has responded to defend himself, but has then been set upon by two others. Eskel and Geralt are now going to use reasonable - ,” Aiden flinched as Eskel felled one of the assailants with a _single_ punch, “force. And, of course, as per the wording of the Criminal Justice and Immigration Act of 2008, all three of them will genuinely and honestly believe their use of force was necessary.”

It was over in moments. ‘Reasonable’ force had been used to ‘defend’ Lambert, who crouched down next to his attacker. “You’re in the twenty-first century, dickhead. Get with the fucking programme.”

While Aiden did not approve of violence - he did, in fact, spend a lot of his time making sure violent, dangerous people went to prison for _a long_ time - he couldn’t help but feel a rather large amount of pleasure and appreciation as Lambert returned to him, pumped and pleased with himself, to slide an arm around his waist and walk the rest of the way to their car.

Geralt stroked a hand over Eskel’s face and ruffled the other through Jaskier’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier smiled. “For what?”

“For people.”

“Geralt,” Eskel grabbed him by the waist. “If you apologised for every time someone’s called me a fag or worse in my lifetime, you’d talk yourself to death. Don’t usually punch ‘em, but that was fuckin’ satisfying. Let’s go home.”

***

The drive back to the flat made Jaskier’s face hurt; his grin just _couldn’t_ fade. Because Eskel wasn’t just a _cuddly_ drunk, he also reverted back to the damn _nineties._ Lambert rigged his phone up to Aiden’s Bluetooth - because he was an _enabler_ \- and the two of them spent the entire time singing along to Lambert’s ‘Eskel’s the Campest Gay in the Village’ playlist.

“ _I_ _'m gonna’ try for an uptown girl, she's been living in her white bred world_ \- yeah, sing it big guy - _as long as anyone with hot blood can, and now she's looking for a downtown man; that's what I am!”_

 _“She'll see I'm not so tough, just because, I'm in love with an uptown girl, you know I've seen her in her uptown world, she's getting tired of her high class toys, and all her presents from her uptown boys, she's got a choice.”_ Eskel leaned forward in his seat and wrapped an arm around Lambert’s shoulders; other than a slight slur and two hiccups, he was still able to carry a tune. _Just._ “Lambert, Lambert… play the - that one - play - .”

“Flying Without Wings? Oh, you magnificent, beautiful bastard, _yes._ ” Lambert tapped the song, and the gentle, soothing twang of the guitar cut in; he wrapped a hand around Eskel’s forearm and crooned along for the first verse. “ _Everybody's looking for that something, one thing that makes it all complete, you find it in the strangest places, places you never knew it could be.”_

Eskel cut in for the next, _"Some find it in the face of their children, some find it in their lover's eyes, who can deny the joy it brings, when you’ve found that special thing, you're flying without wings!”_

Jaskier exchanged a glance with Geralt who, pleasantly fuzzy himself, was just smiling away softly. This had been what he'd meant. Watching Eskel muck around, with his massive, dopey grin; spending an afternoon with him bouncing on the sidelines, and then listening to him croon along to Westlife like he didn’t give a fuck who heard. In his mind’s eye, Jaskier could envisage a young, gay Eskel - perhaps fifteen years old - singing into his hairbrush in his bedroom, surrounded by posters of floppy-haired boybands and yearning for his ‘uptown boy’ to appear. 

Oh, and Lambert could sing so well, it actually took the edge off of listening to the nineties equivalent of One Direction. Lambert was loving life, and cast a quick smirk to Aiden - who was both amused and pained by the entire thing - before he continued, _“Well, for me it's waking up beside you, to watch the sunrise on your face, to know that I can say I love you, in any given time or place; it's little things that only I know, those are the things that make you mine -_ together for the chorus, and - . _”_

 _“And you're the place my life begins, and you'll be where it ends -_ yes, sing it, Eskel, sing it - _I'm flying without wings, and that's the joy you bring, I'm flying without wings!”_

“That was beautiful,” Jaskier chuckled. “So, which one did you fancy?”

“Oh, it was Shane, wasn’t it, Eskel?” Lambert tilted his head and then made a series of lewd gestures in his lap - “Ahh, ahh, Shane.” - only to gulp and gurgle when that thick forearm lifted and pressed into his throat.

“Does Aiden know about Gary Barlow, Lambert, hm?” Eskel slurred, eyes narrowed.

“I do. That confession is regularly used to tease him.” Aiden grinned. “I offered Till Lindemann as mine. How about you, Jaskier?”

“Oh, it’s a tough choice. Billie Joe from Green Day, or _any_ member of the band Five. Geralt?” _Because Jaskier needed to know with every fibre of his being._ “Musical crush. Any gender. Go.”

“Hmm,” Geralt watched the scenery filter by and the car was silent. “Brian Welch from Korn, and then Herman Li from Dragonforce. And Dolores O’Riordan from the Cranberries,” a pause. “Still Herman Li from Dragonforce. His fingers could do amazing things.” 

Jaskier stared, mouth open, and realised he’d never actually _heard_ Geralt listen to music of his own accord. Lambert had always hogged the sound system when he’d lived in the flat, and now playlist duties were shared between himself and Eskel. “I - well, can we have you on a permanent beer drip?” Jaskier slumped against him and then burrowed happily under the arm that was slid across his shoulders.

Getting Eskel into the flat when they arrived, mainly because he was too busy still trying to sing with Lambert, who’d ended the journey with ‘When You’re Lookin’ Like That,’ proved difficult. Jaskier grunted, “Eskel - you need to use your feet - .”

 _“He’s five foot ten in catsuit and Bambi eyes, everybody who’s starin’ wouldn’t believe that this boy was mine -_ but Jaskier, I love this one, I change the words -,” Eskel staggered, and Geralt slipped an arm beneath his from the right to keep him upright. The BMW disappeared down the street, but Eskel was still bopping along. “- _I should’ve known I was wrong when I left him for a life in pity, but they say you never miss the water until it’s gone_ \- hic, oh fuck, I need, wait - _guess - I failed - to - love you, and you’re taking it out toni-i-i-ight!”_

They made it into the living room eventually, and Jaskier departed to put the kettle on. He glanced over his shoulder when Geralt grunted in surprise as he was tackled onto the sofa. A number of quiet growls and grumbles followed, and then they must have settled in a tangle of limbs. Or rather, Geralt was pinned beneath Eskel and had no choice but to accept the kisses sloppily lavished upon him. And then, “Jaskier.”

Jaskier looked around to see the top of Eskel’s head poking up above the sofa, with just his mop of black hair and hazel eyes visible. “Yes, my love?”

“There’s a handsome man on the sofa,” he whispered, just loud enough to be heard, “he’s raising his eyebrow at me.”

“Is there? Well, perhaps you should conduct some reconnaissance and return with more information.”

“Roger that.” Eskel’s head disappeared and Jaskier could hear Geralt’s low, rumbling chuckle as Eskel conducted his investigation. His head appeared again. “Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“He’s got a really nice dick, you should come and take a look. We can share it,” Eskel’s eyes slid slowly from left to right, and then squinted towards the kitchen. “Jaskier.”

“Yes, Eskel?”

“I love you.”

Jaskier beamed, his cheeks flushed. “I love you too, silly bear.”

A happy growl and Eskel dissolved onto Geralt below. When Jaskier carried over the three mugs of tea, he found them wrapped in an impossible tangle of arms and legs, and so made himself comfortable on the floor near Geralt’s head with the television on quietly in the background. They didn’t end up sharing Geralt that evening, because they were too… _comfortable._ A good thing. Sometimes it was nice just to cuddle.

Occasionally a big hand would scoop beneath his chin and tilt his head back for a kiss; either a set of scarred lips or not, both kissed him tenderly, or nibbled down his jaw. Too drunk and spent from their day spent bouncing up and down a rugby pitch, the after drinks and then the tussle, it wasn’t really a surprise when his two cuddly veterans fell asleep in their pile. Jaskier pulled a blanket over them and tiptoed upstairs to enjoy a good night’s sleep in Eskel’s bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert and Eskel sing:
> 
> [Uptown Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HTexqxo1og) Westlife 4:11
> 
> [Flying Without Wings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKPGxGCFgTs) Westlife 3:46
> 
> [When You're Lookin' Like That](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5rmKy8H62BU) Westlife 4:00


	6. Anxious Minds

Another late night meeting for Aiden meant another evening eating with Virtute on the sofa for Lambert. He eyed the stack of wedding magazines, with the plethora of sticky notes, annotations and bookmarkings. They hadn’t picked a venue yet. Nothing had felt _right_. There hadn’t been any disagreements, perse, but each of them found something wrong with the stately homes, refurbished farms and country parks they’d visited.

Lambert pulled the stack of glossy pages onto his lap, flicked one open and dropped his head backwards on the couch cushion. _No. Not enough patience for this bullshit._ He grabbed the biro from where it had rolled into the crease of the couch cushion, drew a line through all of Aiden’s suggestions and added one of his own. _Coast?_

Made sense. Aiden proposed on a beach and Lambert wasn’t one for big parties and loads of people. Something quiet, intimate, with only his children and his brothers there; maybe have a BBQ, give the registrar a beer, then chuck Aiden in the sea again. “I’ll bribe him,” Lambert informed Virtute as she hopped up onto the arm of the sofa. “Not sure with - no, actually, I know exactly what with, but it’s too rude for sensitive ears.” He scritched said ears, and she purred loudly in appreciation. Together they watched a half of the film Gravity, before Lambert had to turn it off as the physics student in him began shrivelling in agony.

The bed was cold without Aiden and he shuffled down beneath the duvet with a forlorn sigh. Well, there was one thing that he could do to take the edge off. He grabbed his phone from the bedside table and pulled up Aiden's number.

Aiden  
  
**Today** 9:05 PM   
  
Busy?  
  
Just got out of the shower.  
  
Pic?  
  
  
  
You shaved. Always cut your right side off pictures.  
  
Had whipped cream on my hot chocolate, and thought about you licking it off me. Wanted to prepare. Maximise the image.  
  
FaceTime me right fucking now.  
  


Because when Lambert _maximised_ the image, it showed _all_ of Aiden’s upper half, including the thick erection he’d so nonchalantly rested on the fucking vanity cabinet next to the sink while taking the picture. _Hotel cleaners were a noble, valiant group of people._

The phone rang for all of about thirty microseconds before Lambert answered. Aiden was sitting up in his hotel bed, one arm tucked behind his head, with a mischievous grin on his face. “What’s going on, kitten?”

“You think you can send me a picture of your massive boner and then not let me watch you deal with it.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re doing it now, aren’t you?” Lambert narrowed his eyes at the wistful, vacant expression reminiscent of a sleepy drunk; _Aiden’s wanking face_. 

“Can’t control myself. Just the thought of you.”

Lambert glowered. “Put the camera somewhere so I can watch.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Umm. You can watch me too?”

“With the dildo shaped like my cock.”

Lambert flushed. “Uh, yeah. Okay.”

“You’re still so timid.”

“Not fucking timid,” Lambert grumbled, and propped the phone on the headboard. The dildo in question was tucked away in the bottom of the closet - not needed when he had access to the real thing - and he returned to the bed after some rummaging. After some practice and instruction from Aiden, he’d been taught the _proper_ way to ride a dildo; that had been a really good night. Really fucking good. _Oh shit. Hard already._ He looked up at the phone and paused in his own arrangements. Aiden had propped _his_ phone up on a cabinet at the end of the bed; his hand gripped the base of his cock, keeping it standing straight from his toned abdomen, with all that tousled hair and those sharp green eyes. Lambert’s brain blue screened. 

“Hey kitten, I’m waiting.”

“I, um, right.” He fidgeted around the bed. “Aiden, I’m - uh - .”

“Why are you nervous?”

“Just feeling a bit, um - ,” Lambert huffed through his nose and rolled his eyes; impatient with himself, “self-conscious. You’re fucking beautiful and I’m a troll.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Aiden growled and sat up, shuffling along the bed to grab the phone again. “Pick up the phone.”

Lambert placed the toy on the bed and picked his phone off the headboard as instructed. 

“A troll? Don’t you dare,” Aiden growled. “Look at what just _thinking_ about you does to me.” The screen dropped briefly back to the erection still sitting heavily between Aiden’s naked thighs. “Where has this come from?”

“Just all your friends are so, uh, good looking and I feel like you’ve settled for me, and - .”

“I’ll be home in two hours.”

“What? No. You’ve got work and shit, what are you - ?”

“I’m not having you go to sleep feeling like this. Two hours. Make sure there’s a glass of wine waiting for me.”

“Aiden, don’t be such a - Aiden?” The phone went dead and Lambert stared at the black screen. _Just like that._ Lambert had a little bit of a self esteem hiccup and Aiden dropped _everything_ to come home. What the actual fuck? He sat in the centre of the bed in silence and his mind worked over how he _felt_ about that. It was difficult. On the one hand, having Aiden home was good. Dedication could not be faulted. But on the other, Lambert wasn’t some kid he had to come running to every time he so much as sniffled. He was a fucking adult, and - 

Lambert dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his eyes. _Fuck._

Two hours later, Aiden parked his car in the garage and stepped into the kitchen. Lambert had the glass of red wine in the centre of the dining room table. Clearly this wasn’t the arrangement Aiden had in mind, because he paused in the adjoining door before sitting down opposite. “That’s not a good expression.”

“Yeah, well, I feel like a fucking prick,” Lambert dropped his chin onto the heel of his hand. “Like, wah wah, I feel ugly, and you come all the way back from fucking London. Do you not think I can deal with that shit? I’ve had this face for thirty-three years. I’m not a fucking child, Aiden.”

“I - ,” Aiden sighed and slumped down in the chair opposite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about the way it would come across.”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have dumped my shit on you when you were working, I’m - .”

“No,” Aiden said, quickly. “Please. I like that you tell me how you’re feeling, I - please don’t stop that - it’s - ,” he pinched the bridge of his nose, “I think I was looking for an excuse to come home. I struggle being away from you sometimes, and not because I think you can’t handle it.” He grabbed his glass of wine, took a _gulp_ and put it back. “I can’t handle it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I get - ,” Aiden shuffled in his seat, “I’ve felt low. I missed holding you, and speaking with you. I started feeling tearful in the office, for fuck’s sake. I just feel like I can be me around you, and... I’m not making any sense; I know it sounds clingy, alright? I’m sorry.”

“Is there such a thing as dom drop?” Lambert tilted his head to the side as he studied Aiden closely. The last time they’d played was the evening before Aiden left; it was intense with a lot of orgasm delay, rope and a huge variety of toys. Lambert was a wreck by the end. They hadn’t really been able to cuddle that much after because Aiden's phone had gone off and the three hour call that followed meant it was 2am by the time he crawled beneath the duvet again. Surrounded by Aiden’s scent, wrapped in warm blankets and generally floaty, Lambert hadn’t really been sentient enough to worry. _Had been thoughtless._

“Yes, it’s not very well documented, but - hang on, no, it’s not that.”

“Sounds like a drop to me.” Lambert rose slowly from his seat, but wasn’t standing for long; he dropped onto his knees and shuffled the short distance across the floor to rest his head in Aiden’s lap, eyes closed. The silence hung heavily for a moment, but Lambert didn’t leave, just rubbed his head pointedly on Aiden’s thigh in a request for attention. His patience was rewarded when Aiden began to comb his fingers slowly through his hair, his glass of wine plucked from the table and rested on his other leg between sips.

Lambert’s suspicions were confirmed as Aiden began to noticeably relax; to be content, he needed that opportunity to _care_ for his partner after they’d finished. It was a huge part of their play. The end was always the same; Aiden cleaned Lambert, praised and kissed him, then got them a drink - sometimes chocolate too - before cuddling and cooing some more. Lambert had just thought it was _a nice thing_ to do, but clearly it was as integral to Aiden’s fulfilment as the act itself. Without it, he _dropped._ Knowing that Lambert was unhappy - for whatever reason - made Aiden feel like he hadn't done his job properly, made his drop worse, and tipped him over to drive home.

Once the wine was gone, Aiden scooped Lambert under the chin and guided him gently onto his lap. His t-shirt discarded to the floor, those same reverent hands stroked over Lambert's torso, occasionally curling so that his nails left light red trails over his skin. “God, I think you’re right.” Aiden whispered into the centre of his lover's chest when he leaned forward, his face snuffling into the hair in search of his cologne. “I already feel better.”

“Yeah, I know,” Lambert cupped his jaw and kissed his lower lip. “Bed? It’s late.” They drifted up the stairs together and Lambert wasn’t surprised when the rest of his clothes were pried from him, and Aiden pushed him down on his front. The lube barely warmed before it slid down his cleft, the thick head of Aiden’s cock tapping against his more than willing hole. “Aiden, _please_ \- nnghh.” Lambert didn’t even finish begging. The slow, deep rut of Aiden’s cock inside him reduced him to moaning helplessly into the duvet. His wrists pinned above his head, he spread his legs and Aiden told him how gorgeous he was, leaving biting, possessive kisses over his shoulders and neck. 

Lambert teetered on the edge until one of Aiden’s hands dropped from his wrists to take his hip, bringing his ass back for the last few grinding thrusts he needed to finish, and fell off the edge with him untouched. “Love you.” Aiden whispered into his neck as he withdrew and flopped down at his side. “Sorry for being a needy prick.”

“I like it when you’re a needy prick. Makes me feel… needed.” Not feeling particularly eloquent, Lambert rolled and draped over Aiden’s back. “Just gotta’ make sure my big, scary dom gets his snuggles after he’s finished beatin’ my ass.”

Aiden exacted his penance with tickles, pinches and nipping kisses in all the areas that made Lambert squirm and guffaw, and then they fell asleep sprawled on top of the covers. _Virtute decided it was probably more comfortable downstairs._

***

Jaskier  
  
**Today** 6:37 PM   
  
Hi, Aiden. Quick question.  
  
Go ahead.  
  
What knot is best for secure hold, yet easy release? I’ve been doing some research, and I’m worried about Eskel panicking.  
  
You need to learn a single column tie. There are two versions.  
  
This looks complicated.  
  
I know of some shibari workshops in town. They’re relatively underground because the press get skittish. Would it be something you’re interested in?  
  
Yes! What do I need to do?  
  
I’ll text you the time and location. You need to convince one or both to come along. If you can’t, then I’ll have to convince Lambert to let you practice on him. But it would be better for them to see.  
  
Send me the details. I’ll do my best.  


***

Three more chapters. _Three more chapters._ And then Eskel was free from the shackles of that fucking thesis. At several points during the day, he’d found himself face down on his desk at work longing for inspiration to strike, but he had the mother of all writer’s block and no amount of pen tapping, chair swivelling or theatrical hand posturing seemed to be shifting it. At six o’clock, he locked his office door and drove home, only to flop immediately at the piano with a tumbler of whiskey once he’d fed Roach her evening meal and topped up her water. Geralt was out for a dad-daughter date night with Ciri; she had a lot to update him on regarding her new girlfriend, the roller derby championships and a plethora of other teenage girl stuff. Geralt would weather it all with patience and a smile. They’d be back close to eleven o’clock.

There was a weight Eskel couldn’t shake though. _Three more chapters._ And then what? What awaited him when he shook the dean’s hand and accepted his doctorate? In a climate of education funding cuts, and without the support of the European Union, the arts and humanities were suffering; it was unlikely that Eskel would be offered tenure, and not because he wasn’t _worth_ it. The money just didn’t exist. Not even in a prestigious institution like Cambridge; private benefactors were plugging funding gaps elsewhere. The uncertainty weighed heavily on him, and he’d quietly upped some of his medication to compensate. Probably wasn’t helping with the concentration or the writer’s block. So, he turned to something that had helped him in the past. Music. He’d play through Beethoven’s back catalogue and hope this claustrophobic feeling of being simultaneously trapped and freefalling was shaken loose by the energy of playing.

_Could I go into private security? Maybe publishing? That’s a competitive market - fuck - I have no fucking idea -_

The front door opened again about half an hour and a full sonata later. Jaskier chucked his keys onto the lamp table, shed his shoes and coat, petted Roach very briefly in greeting, before collapsing face first on the sofa. Eskel lifted his hands away from the ivory. “Long day?”

“The longest,” Jaskier murmured, his voice muffled by the sofa cushion. He flopped over onto his back and shuffled so that his head could hang over the arm. “When did university actually become _difficult?_ ”

“Oh, maybe when you started working?”

“Ouch, Eskel. You’re meant to be on my team.”

“I sleep with the players, I couldn’t be further on your team.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Fair. I did get some good news though.”

“Oh?”

“I’m through to the interview stage with the Squirrels. I’ve got a few days away in London ahead of me. The university has already given me the time off.”

“That’s fantastic news,” Eskel grinned. “I’m proud of you.”

“Hmm. Proud enough to sing for me?”

“I’m not sure. You’d have to save the world to get that level of reward.”

Jaskier huffed. “You sang for me when we first met.”

“Yes,” Eskel swivelled in the stool. “You saved _my_ world.”

“Expected that one to work, did you?”

Eskel smirked as he flicked through the sheet music on the iPad propped above the keys. “Did it?”

“I’m a puddle, but - ,” Jaskier hopped up from the sofa and sauntered his way over, “- you’re still singing. Choose a song. It can be a duet.”

“Alright, alright. Know Imagine Dragons?”

“Really, Eskel?”

“Look, I’m not sure what counts as popular music these days. This one’s called Demons. I’ve been working on learning a version on the piano.”

Jaskier’s brow furrowed as he squinted at the music. “Demons?” Without even thinking, he stroked his fingers carefully through Eskel’s hair. “Is - I - should I be reading into that song choice?”

“You know, my therapist asked me the same question,” Eskel quirked an eyebrow, took Jaskier’s hand and placed a kiss on the back. “I’m fine. C’mon, let’s get this over with, then I’m ordering a curry.”

Eskel’s fingers flickered energetically across the keys and Jaskier was immediately hypnotised by it. Those hands were so big; their elegance when playing the piano defied physics. Eskel started, _“When the days are cold and the cards all fold, and the saints we see are all made of gold.”_

 _“When your dreams all fail and the ones we hail are the worst of all, and the blood’s run stale.”_ Jaskier knew the words; instead of watching the iPad, he watched Eskel. His hazel eyes swapping from sheet music to his hands.

_“I wanna’ hide the truth, I wanna’ shelter you, but with the beast inside, there’s nowhere we can hide.”_

_“No matter what we breed, we still are made of greed; this is my kingdom come, this is my kingdom come.”_

They sang together for the chorus and Jaskier harmonised his lighter tenor around Eskel’s voice with expert precision, and he saw the smile hinting at the corners of Eskel’s lips; he may protest, and resist, but he loved this. Loved the tranquility that playing music brought him and the way that Jaskier slotted easily into that peace.

_“When you feel my heat, look into my eyes,  
It’s where my demons hide, it’s where my demons hide,  
Don’t get too close; it’s dark inside,  
It’s where my demons hide, it’s where my demons hide.”_

Jaskier knew the song choice wasn’t accidental; Eskel used music to process emotions that were difficult for him. It was part of the reason he’d been introduced to a piano in the first place - _‘don’t wanna let you down, but I am hell-bound’_ \- and this was perhaps his way of saying something he was struggling to vocalise in any other way. As they reached the bridge, the volume reached a crescendo. 

Eskel’s voice lifted, _“They say it’s what you make, I say it’s up to fate, it’s woven in my soul, I need to let you go.”_

 _“Your eyes, they shine so bright, I wanna save that light.”_ Jaskier stroked his thumb down Eskel’s cheek.

They finished the last line together, _“I can’t escape this now, unless you show me how!”_

There was another chorus with call and echo, but Eskel’s hands stilled on the keys. He tapped the iPad and didn’t look up. “I - uh - was probably a bad song choice.”

“No.” Jaskier invited himself across Eskel’s lap - this was a tactic he had to employ with both of them, because it stopped them curling into an emotional ball - and tilted his chin up. “This is our shared language, Eskel. What’re you worried about?”

“The end of my doctorate,” Eskel whispered, because he knew it sounded minor. “I’m - not sure what will happen when I’ve - when I - .”

“When you’ve got nothing to occupy your mind twenty-four hours a day.” Jaskier rested their foreheads together. Even after all this time, Eskel was still worried about being left alone with his thoughts and his memories; he buried it in work and hobbies, then hoped it would just get better on its own without attention. He hated his sessions with the therapist, and always looked grey when he stepped out of the office and flopped into the car. It was an unspoken agreement that Geralt drove and waited in the car park. “You don’t need to work, you know. You could actually retire. Take up golf.”

“Golf,” Eskel said it so flatly that Jaskier couldn’t help but chuckle. “Jaskier, do I look like the type of man that would look good in check and a flat cap?” 

“Darling, you look good in _everything._ ” The statement sealed with a kiss before Eskel could protest. As always happened when Jaskier kissed one of his lovers in private, chaste transformed into deep, deep transformed into hungry, and then suddenly his rear end depressed a clump of keys as Eskel pushed forward in his eagerness. He cupped Eskel’s jaw and pulled away. “I have a request…”

“Right,” Eskel narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Which is?” Because he was now testing the limits of his slacks.

“I would like to take you here. On your piano. And then every time you play, you’ll think of us together.” Other than how very hot it would be, there was an ulterior motive. Jaskier had been thinking carefully about his chosen career path. It would mean months abroad. Separated from those he loved. It too was sitting heavily in the back of his mind.

Eskel checked his watch. Eight o’clock. He glanced over at Roach, who was still sprawled out in her basket asleep. She was generally quite relaxed about noise. “Fine. Go and get the - .” Jaskier was already hopping off his lap and running upstairs to collect the bottle of lube from the bedside cabinet. “Right.” Eskel knocked back the rest of his whiskey and grimaced as it burned its way down. It was the bottle Professor Daniels had bought him upon his return to work after his medical leave. Expensive. But brutal. 

Two warm hands slid around his waist as Jaskier pushed up against his back. "If you're not in the mood, we can just cuddle - ah, well, I take it back." Eskel took one of Jaskier's hands and guided it lower until it pressed over the straining tent of his crotch, and then lifted it back up to press a kiss on the back.

"On my piano though?"

"Yes. Less talking, more kissing." Jaskier allowed him enough room to turn and then pressed up close again. Clothes fell to the floor sporadically, and Eskel lost himself to Jaskier’s eager hands. Indulgent, greedy squeezes ran over his chest and down his sides until Jaskier kneaded his ass through the thin material of his boxers; soft lips lapped over his nipples and nibbled across his collarbone, hips sashaying and rubbing until Eskel was breathless and wanting. Jaskier licked the side of his neck as he hooked the waistband of his boxers and finally pushed them down. It was always so very pleasing when he thumbed over the head of Eskel’s cock and found it wet and leaking already. The thick length sat heavily in his palm and he was so very tempted to suggest a little switch, but Eskel was moving his hands to his ass again.

“How’d you want me?” Eskel whispered into Jaskier’s ear before nibbling the arch.

“Lean over the keys. Grip the back.” Jaskier stepped back long enough for Eskel to reposition, and then bit his lower lip when all of that toned muscle flexed out in front of him, pert ass presented with an agile little shimmy that made him grin. With Geralt everything was all very hot, serious and intense; both of them were left breathless and spaced, but together with Eskel there was always an aspect of playful abandon that made them both giddy and excitable. Jaskier warmed the lube in his palm before he ran his fingers down Eskel’s lower back to the top of his cleft, leaving a glistening trail in their wake. 

“You’re such a tease.” Eskel growled, hips tipping to try and urge his lover on a little further.

“You complain, and yet you’re covered in goosebumps. Move forward a bit and spread ‘em, sergeant.” Despite the raised eyebrow cast back over his shoulder, Eskel did as requested. Obedience was rewarded with a final sweep of the fingers down to his entrance and Eskel hung his head forward with a quiet moan of appreciation as Jaskier’s fingertips circled, dipping just inside to tease him into clenching with pleasure. 

“C’mon, songbird, fill me up.” Low and hoarse, Eskel wriggled again and Jaskier lined up after slicking another palmful of lube down his cock. “Oh, fuck yes.” An appreciative stream of huffs and mumbled curses escaped as Jaskier’s girth split him open at a deliciously slow pace. The first few rocks of the hips were always like a worship; he knew Jaskier was watching his cock disappear into Eskel’s eager body, admiring the way the muscles in his lower back and thighs bunched. It was still such a novelty for a lover to take their time with him. Men usually saw his shape - how big he was, his scars - and they thought he always wanted a swift, brutal fuck, usually as a top; they didn’t notice the rather fragile, gentle heart sighing dejectedly inside his chest as he gave them what they expected. He craved tenderness, and Jaskier was overflowing with it. “Oh, oh, fuck.” Jaskier bottomed out for the first time, his tight balls pressed flush with Eskel’s taint, a hot weight to remind him of the strength and virility of the man behind him.

“Just deciding what I’m going to do with you,” Jaskier mused, somewhat breathless. He wasn’t a quiet lover, regardless of his position, but the slow pace allowed him a little room for teasing. “Mmm. You’re so beautiful. Could stay like this forever. Keep you impaled here, all stretched open.” He rolled his hips; a slow withdrawal, and an equally languid thrust forward into the hilt that made Eskel gasp. 

“Ciri would be scarred for life.” Eskel growled, and was rewarded with another slow roll. His cock twitched enthusiastically where it sat on top of the damned piano keys, and he bit his lower lip as he glanced down at its leaking head. There was something very illicit - very taboo - about the whole thing, and it lit a fire in the back of his mind. Jaskier was going to make him come on his piano. Every time he touched these keys he’d remember their tender love-making, and the sound of Jaskier’s voice as melodious and sweet in pleasure as it was when he sang. As his hips began to move more fluidly, more constantly, Eskel’s own joined him. “Mm, you feel so good, fuck - Jaskier - ahh, right there, right - .”

“I know, my bear,” Jaskier leaned to rest his forehead against Eskel’s back, grinding forward again. “Keep singing for me. I love your voice.” One hand took Eskel’s hip to keep him angled just so, while the other slipped beneath his arm to slant across his chest, keeping them pressed close as he fucked slowly - torturously - into Eskel’s eager body. Their joint sweat gathered on Jaskier’s forehead and he lifted his face away as he drew close, dropping only to press the occasional kiss to flushed skin. The hand at Eskel’s hip moved to his cock, his thumb moving his foreskin lazily across his crown, before sliding down his shaft. 

“Nngh, Jaskier - ahh, fuck, it - yes, please, please, just a bit faster, please.” Eskel balanced on the edge, the pressure building in his stomach and groin to an almost painful degree; perfect, and yet not enough to give him the final nudge he needed. “Oh god, oh fuck, yeah.” His pleas for mercy met with just the right snap of the hips, wet skin slapping, Eskel’s hands tightening on the back of the piano, and then he was coming. His spend splashed over Jaskier’s palm and soaked the keys, his hips pushed forward as his knees threatened to buckle; Jaskier kept thrusting deep through each tremor until he came to a stuttering stop with his hips pressed to Eskel’s ass.

“Pffft,” Jaskier blustered into Eskel’s back, palm still cradling his softening cock off the keys, while his own stayed deep and warm inside. “Whatever I did in a past life to deserve you, I need to know, because I want you in my next one too.”

“Hmm. I’m one of a kind unfortunately.” Eskel mumbled into his forearm, eyes lidded as he enjoyed the feeling of being cradled. They may be standing, but Jaskier still held him; his arm wrapping his chest, his fingers cushioning his cock from the hardness of the piano. 

“Well, I’ll just have to find a way to make you immortal then, won’t I?” Jaskier drew back slowly and steadied Eskel when he swayed a little. “Ice cream and Gladiator?”

“Oh, young Russell Crowe? You do spoil me. Actually, you know, I think I prefer him in Master and Commander.”

“It’s the uniform, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Nothing is more disappointing to me than the fact the armed forces stopped wearing breeches, brocaded coats and bicorn hats. I’m just a slut for the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, I think.”

Jaskier chuckled. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

They cleaned up, poured more of Eskel’s expensive whiskey, and settled down on the sofa, ancient DVD player whirring away. _The bell of a ship tolled to change the night shift, and the fog rolled in..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Eskel sing:
> 
> [Demons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JUwcv7dUQI) K. H. Schneider 3:32
> 
> Those of you with eagle-eyes and good memories will realise this song was the chapter title for when everything went wrong for Eskel in the last story; he left Jaskier and then went into a spiral, so he's using one of the only methods he knows to express his building anxiety and ask for help.


	7. Tie Me Up, Buttercup

Today was the day. Jaskier was going to ask one of them. His place on the shibari workshop was booked; Aiden and Lambert were coming too. But which of his dashing partners would be more likely to say yes? In the end, fate decided for him. The _music_ playing when he arrived home knocked him off kilter when only _one_ other person was in the flat. _Geralt was playing music._ It had a seriously deep bass line, and the band definitely weren’t singing in English half the time. As Jaskier chucked the keys in their usual place, he checked the Google Nest Hub by the door - _‘Wolf Totem’ by the Hu feat. Papa Roach_ \- well, obviously. What else would the Wolf be listening to? Jaskier smirked and shrugged his coat from his shoulders.

Roach bounded up to greet him and he accepted the paw she offered, before dispatching her off to the sofa. “Hey Google, reduce volume by fifty percent.”

Even in pants and dressing gown, damp, white hair pulled back in the most _criminally attractive messy bun in the world_ , and a bowl of coco pops in his hand, the gaze Geralt levied on Jaskier was still _very_ heavy. He didn’t mean it. Geralt was just an intense man. It didn’t help when he plucked his reading glasses off the counter and put them on as he returned to his newspaper. “Welcome home, Jaskier.” He rumbled and butted his head gently to the side of Jaskier’s shoulder on the way by because he had a mouth mostly filled with milk and cereal. 

“Geralt, have you - uh - how was your day?” Jaskier smiled broadly and popped to the fridge to get himself a beer, because maybe this would be easier to ask if he wasn’t sober, and rather than going straight into asking about weekend plans he could navigate his way there in a _roundabout_ way, right?

“Good. New arrivals are doing well. I think the herd has accepted them.” The farm received a new batch of rescued sheep from a farm closed for animal rights abuses. “Although, there’s one with a serious attitude problem. I’ve named him Lambert.”

Jaskier smirked. “Does it say ‘fuck’ instead of ‘baa’?”

Geralt hastily swallowed the mouthful of cereal and grinned with a quiet snort of laughter. _Oh it was so beautiful._ Those lovely blue eyes glowed so brightly. Every quiet chuckle, every beaming smile, was a triumph and Jaskier stored the sight away greedily. He was getting better at earning them. Geralt leaned back on the sofa and Roach hopped up to sit next to him. “What about you? You said you were attending a lecture on American treatment of alleged terrorist suspects.”

“Oh yeah, Guantanamo Bay, what a riot,” Jaskier sighed. “I swear, if Russia had its own version - .”

“ - they do.” Geralt murmured.

“Ah. Well, if the American administration thought they could capitalise on it, it’d be human rights abuses - this - and Russian scumbags - that. But I suppose it’s the Russians, and they’re just - what, expected to do that? The whole world is a broken mess. I say we burn it all and start again. Maybe not the dogs though,” he petted Roach. “And I suppose our little family network can stay.”

“Hmm.”

“What?” Jaskier leaned forward, because _that,_ my friends, was an _affectionate_ ‘hmm’. He was getting better at earning those too.

“I can’t wait until you’re running MI5.” 

And with that the whole ‘shibari workshop’ question just seemed so unapproachable. They spent the evening chatting about politics, farm animals and Ciri. You know, _the usual._ So, now that they were on the topic of his daughter, it was impossible to bring up anything _remotely_ kinky. _Oh, it’s so lovely that your teenage daughter is deciding her options subjects, wanna’ come to a hall so I can tie you up for sex?_ God above. 

_That left Eskel._

Unfortunately, his favourite teddy bear had been shut in his room for the last three days in a desperate attempt to break through the wall of literary discourse between him and the finish line. Jaskier took a huge mug of tea and a packet of hobnobs with him into the bedroom and peeked around the door. “Permission to enter?”

“At your own risk,” said a muffled voice, because Eskel was facedown on his desk with a book open over the back of his head.

Jaskier approached the desk and squinted at the laptop screen. “You’ve typed ‘Wordsworth is a bellend’ five times.”

“He is a bellend.” 

“You know, you can’t absorb information through osmosis like that. Trust me, I’ve tried.” Jaskier gently removed the book over the back of Eskel’s head, and then stroked the scruffy mop of black hair he found beneath. “Maybe you should take a break? Come cuddle with us on the sofa.”

“Jaskier, I can’t. The undergraduates are about to sit their final exams and I’ll have to mark them. That’s literally thousands of pages and an entire pack of red biros,” Eskel lifted his head far enough to rub the heels of his hands into his eyes, and then when he spotted the cup of tea on the desk, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jaskier placed the hobnobs down too. “Fuel. You have one more hour today, then I’m going to get Geralt to come up here and carry you out.” With Eskel looking so exhausted, how could Jaskier ask him to consider something that could be potentially anxiety-inducing? He didn’t actually know what to expect, and that was half the problem. Or perhaps Jaskier was just wussing out. Either way, he ended up texting Aiden the day before.

Aiden  
  
**Today** 7:05 PM   
  
Aiden. They’re not available.  
  
You’re too scared to ask them, aren’t you?  
  
Yes. I just feel like I could bring them along if I knew more about it.  
  
That’s absolutely fine. But Jaskier, I must insist on one thing: absolute honesty at all times. This isn’t the type of activity you can do while hiding things. It would be unsafe. It requires open communication. Agreed?  
  
Of course. 100% understand.  
  
Which means telling Geralt and Eskel exactly what you’re doing and why. I won’t interfere, but it’s important. They will find out.  
  
Yes, I know. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.

***

Jaskier told Eskel and Geralt he was meeting Triss in town for a drink. It was a very small lie, but it was still a _lie_ , and they both just smiled and told him to have a good time. _Oh fuck, now he felt like a dirtbag._ Aiden’s BMW was waiting just on the outskirts of the industrial estate and Jaskier hopped in the back.

“Good evening,” he said brightly, and then caught Lambert’s eye in the rearview mirror. “Lambert, thank you so much for this.”

Lambert sighed heavily through his nose and looked across at Aiden, who was still dressed in the three-piece suit he’d worn at work; jet black, a deep purple lining, with matching tie and pocket handkerchief. “How much did the suit cost?”

“This one? It’s a Canali. One thousand three hundred pounds.”

“Good.” Lambert said, almost petulantly. 

Jaskier blinked at the broad grin on Aiden’s face as they pulled away. The rest of the journey was occupied by the evening news. Lambert scrolled aimlessly through his phone and Jaskier fidgeted on the back seat. He wasn’t sure what he expected when they pulled up; it _definitely_ wasn’t a nondescript village hall though and as he stepped out into the gravel car park, he gazed at the other arrivals in confusion.

“Aiden, are we in the right place?”

“Yes,” Aiden followed Jaskier’s eyes to a young couple in jeans and a t-shirt walking towards the entrance. “What did you expect? Chains and leather?”

“Well - .”

“Come along, Jaskier. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” Aiden indicated the doors and locked his car behind them. They walked past the notice board advertising church bake sales and the local scout group, signed in with a fairly innocuous, middle-aged woman with salon-dyed hair wearing a mumsy floral blouse, and then entered the main hall. 

It was full of… normal people. 

Jaskier couldn’t help but _stare_ for a moment. He truly _had_ been expecting the weird, wonderful and exotic. Sure, there were one or two people that had gone with leather and spikes, but the vast majority could pass as ‘Jill and Bob from down the road’, and the word _vast_ felt a bit of an overstatement; there were only five other couples there. His fears about asking Geralt and Eskel had, he realised, mainly hinged on the fact that they’d feel isolated and out of place. They didn’t need yet another social circle where they felt like pariahs. 

Aiden and Lambert wandered over to the tea, biscuits and juice at the side of the hall, and had enough time to knock back a cup before the same woman from the front desk asked them to take up a position near one of the mats. They were covered in blue, wipe-clean plastic and reminded Jaskier of secondary school PE lessons. At the side sat five coils of rope of varying lengths and thickness. As Lambert knelt down, he squinted at the others taking up a similar position. “Aiden.”

“Yes, kitten?”

“I’m the _only_ man that’s a… I’m the - .”

“The only male submissive?”

“Yes.” A low, irritable growl.

“So you are,” Aiden knelt down next to him and stroked the backs of his fingers down his arm. “Don’t worry, it’s not unusual for people to switch halfway through. Are you alright?”

Lambert tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, clearly mustering some patience. When he looked back down, he glared at Aiden. “You’re going to have to _burn_ that suit when I’m done with it.”

Before Aiden could respond or Jaskier could satisfy his curiosity, their instructor called them to order. His submissive was a tall young woman with bright blue eyes and a shy smile. This was a beginners session, so he started with the tie that Aiden mentioned over text. Lambert obediently folded his hands behind his back and Aiden grabbed one of the thinner ropes. “The chunkier ones can be a bit unwieldy when you’re first starting out.”

“Huh. So everyone keeps their clothes on?” Most of those being bound up were in gym clothes; leggings, with strappy tops or snug t-shirts, but nothing revealing or scandalous. Another small relief; Geralt would sooner throw himself off the roof than take his clothes off in front of strangers.

“Yes. If his shirt gets in the way, I can get him to take it off, but it shouldn’t. This instructor can do more intimate sessions upon request.”

“Aiden, I’m not taking my - .” Lambert started, but fell silent when he received two raised eyebrows; Aiden flicked at his own lapel, and Lambert muttered a quiet string of expletives under his breath. Once Lambert settled, Jaskier set to work following the example they’d been shown; he created two lines of rope, and then a loop - or bight - by folding the rope back on itself.

“Good so far,” Aiden tilted his head as he watched Jaskier manipulate the rope. “I always have a line or loop go beneath the wraps to prevent it from tightening down.” He reached to intervene and demonstrated what he meant, passing Jaskier’s loop beneath the lines that already wrapped Lambert’s wrists. “It prevents loss of circulation, bruising, abrasion, and painful rope marks. You want your partner to feel comfortable. Also, lift the rope whenever you have to move it, don’t drag it across the skin too much.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect. You need to use your finger like a crochet hook to pull the bight through. Pulling the rope is always easier than pushing, again, try to be gentle with skin contact. Sometimes a little stimulation on the nipples and other erogenous zones can feel good, but you need to make sure you’re talking all the time until you learn what your partner likes.” 

“Right.”

Jaskier was watching Aiden as much as he could. The way he touched Lambert constantly, sometimes without even looking directly at him - across the back of the arm, down the side of his neck, on the top his thighs - a reassuring presence to complement the process of being bound. And then there was the way that Lambert responded; he didn’t snark or bite if Jaskier got something wrong. He gazed placidly into the middle distance, unaware of anyone else in the room, and leaned into Aiden’s hand whenever it was near.

Later in the evening, they progressed onto simple chest harnesses and Lambert pulled his shirt over his head without fuss. _His back was as nice as Jaskier remembered._ The rig was beautiful once the instructor had finished, but Jaskier required a few patient interventions to get it right; complex knots and a little awkwardness at touching Lambert quite _intimately_ around his chest. The pattern criss-crossed Lambert’s torso, binding his arms close to his back and bringing his shoulders straight. It reminded Jaskier of a mandala, with its complex symbolism and intricate, repetitive patterns. When the ropes became tighter and the position a touch more strenuous, Aiden began checking in with Lambert more; he was becoming less responsive, his head bowed and his shoulders relaxed.

“Is he alright?” Jaskier pulled his hands away.

“It’s called getting rope drunk. He’s fine. Aren’t you, kitten?” There was a vague grunt and Lambert shuffled on his knees. Aiden slipped a hand around his jaw and tilted his head up. “Colour?”

“Green.” He said, hopefully, with a _drunken_ smile to accompany it.

“When we get home. Be good.” 

“Mmph.” His head dropped again.

Jasker grinned and sat back on his heels. “What does green mean?”

“It means he’d like more. I’ll talk to you a bit more about traffic lights later,” Aiden shuffled around to kneel next to Jaskier and inspect the finished product. “It looks good. Very neat. Not too tight either. If circulation is restricted, the area will generally become darker and feel cooler to the touch. Just keep an eye out for dark blotches.” 

“This is a lot of responsibility, isn’t it?” Jaskier reached out to run a finger beneath a rope at Lambert’s shoulder and blinked when he shivered. “Sorry.”

“It is. People often believe that it’s only the submissive who is vulnerable in a scene, but it really isn’t. The dominant is open to a lot of recrimination if something goes wrong,” Aiden touched Lambert again, earning another shiver. “Don’t worry. This is his favourite thing. He wouldn’t have said yes if it wasn't, regardless of what I offered.”

“What _did_ you offer?”

“Aiden.” A quiet growl of warning; Lambert wasn’t _completely_ absent.

“Ahh, well, I have my orders.” Aiden smiled and then leaned forward to place a kiss on the side of Lambert’s face. 

The session finished shortly after and Jaskier was surprised by how quickly Lambert seemed to come back to some form of sentience, despite the initially shaky start as he stood up from the mat. Aiden made him drink a cup of tea and eat three biscuits before they headed back out into the carpark, and then Lambert promptly fell asleep in the passenger seat on the drive home. “Sorry, he’s had a long week. Taking on extra shifts to clear appointments.” Aiden glanced in the rearview mirror as he approached the industrial estate.

“It’s fine. Eskel and Geralt regularly fall asleep on me when I’m mid-sentence. I try not to take it too personally.” Usually on a Friday after the take away and several bottles of beer, and it was mostly his fault; Fridays had transformed from ‘which club shall we go to now at 3am in the morning’ to ‘let me cuddle with these two warm furnaces on the sofa with my dog’. He was basically middle-aged at twenty. Didn’t matter. The latter activity made him far happier than any rave or extended drinking session.

As the BMW pulled up just outside the road to the flat, Jaskier paused. “Thanks, Aiden. I appreciate the help.”

“No problem at all. Just make sure you talk to them. Next session in two weeks.”

***

Jaskier _didn’t_ talk to them. Aiden chastised him, but took him along anyway. The next session was a lot more intimate than the first and after seeing how much Lambert enjoyed the whole thing, Jaskier didn’t want to ruin it for him. When the rig got down to his hips and legs, Jaskier shuffled back and allowed Aiden to take over. The process was carefully explained, even as Aiden pulled Lambert against him and kept his head tilted into his shoulder. 

Once the rig was finished - this one a complex hog-tie that bound his calves to his thighs and connected his ankles to his wrists, followed by yet more intricate work up to his elbows - Aiden still held him, chest-to-chest, straddling Lambert’s bound legs, arms wrapped around his back. Jaskier had never seen Lambert look so at peace; in fact, his eyes were closed and his breathing slow, as if he were asleep. The hands that stroked down his back were definitely sensual, the position deliberate, because even Jaskier had noticed the slight swell in the front of Lambert's jeans this time round when the ropes started to tighten. _Flattering._

Jaskier wanted this for Eskel and Geralt. Something that would make them float in a dreamy space where they didn’t have to worry about anything; he would hold them, stroke them, kiss them, then if they wanted more he could do that too. But would this have the same impact on them? Would they be amused, or frightened? Annoyed?

“Does it make you feel close to him?” Jaskier whispered his question, because Lambert wasn’t the only person looking wistful and content. There were a number of couples who’d now finished their rig and were quietly cuddling or talking as the instructor walked around to inspect their work and provide guidance.

Aiden blinked as if waking from a daydream and took a moment to process the question. “Yes. But it only emphasises something that’s already there,” he rubbed his eyes and gently eased Lambert away from his chest, the backs of his fingers stroking down the side of his face. “I wouldn’t do it if he didn’t want it. It’s not for everyone.” 

“You still gag me, don’t like that.” Lambert grumbled and then grinned, eyes barely open.

“Sometimes, kitten, you deserve it.”

Lambert seemed to consider this and then nodded dreamily. “Mmm. Yeah.” 

Jaskier went away from that session with new resolve. Eskel and Geralt - preferably both, at least one - were going to come to the next one. It wasn’t until after his three-day interview in London, so he had time to do a bit more research on the emotional care side of things. On the train into London a couple of days later - when he should have been researching interview questions - he read endless blogs and studies about the impact of BDSM practices on mental health (his main worry about the whole thing was doing serious damage), and was surprised to find _positive_ links. Still in the research stages, but the evidence was beginning to mount. _How interesting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt listens to:
> 
> [Wolf Totem](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sv29DzgiXZA) The HU 5:15
> 
> This song belongs to the School of Wolf.
> 
> Always seek medical advice when treating mental health issues; at this stage the research is ropy at best (see what I did there).


	8. Suits and Praise

The suit was his. Lambert had _earned_ that fucking suit. And he was going to have it at his leisure. 

They were both too tired during the week - Aiden was working a particularly stressful case, and one of the other mechanics was sick at the Autocentre - so it had to wait until the weekend. Saturday morning meant rugby training, FaceTime with the kids and a bit of housework for Lambert. Aiden answered some emails and went for a swim. 

The golf club on the outskirts of Cambridge, with its attached gym and spa, cut just the right balance between private and public that allowed Aiden to continue building confidence. There was still a nervous moment in the changing rooms when he got to the point of removing his shirt, especially when there were others nearby; he stared at the panel of the locker door with his hands on the buttons. _Come all this way and you’re going to chicken out._ Green eyes closed and he summoned his own mental edition of Lambert; the one with the dopey, mischievous smirk, big brown, puppy-dog eyes and work-rough hands that tickled tenderly over his sides. 

_“You’re fucking gorgeous, Aiden.”_ Whispered against his skin, accented by the faintest brush of stubble. He could feel the ghost of the touch now; hear the tremor of reverence in Lambert’s tone. Fuck, he must look like some kind of nutcase grinning to himself as he he shucked his shirt over his head and undid his belt. 

He traced the burn scars on the right side of his ribs, faint around the front and more livid around the back where the fabric of the car seat had ignited. It was getting to seven years ago, but he still felt a flutter of anxiety every time he pulled up behind a lorry or had to slam the brakes on. There were only so many advanced driving courses he could book himself on to assuage the fear before he had to admit some aspect of it was here to stay. 

One hundred lengths. He fell effortlessly into the rhythm of front crawl, tucking and rolling every time he reached a wall to continue on uninterrupted. It gave him time to think. The wedding was rapidly approaching and Lambert wanted to host it _on a beach._ He was also under the impression that only close family would be in attendance. For someone in Aiden’s position, a wedding was a political minefield. The other shareholders of the company would expect an invitation along with several colleagues he’d worked with for many years. The numbers were quickly swelling. And, unhelpfully, Lambert’s response had been, “Alright, well, just do what you need to do,” which was Lambert-speak for, “I’m really unhappy with this, but I also don’t want to upset you, so fuck it”. 

Rather than contribute to the decisions, Lambert was now just _agreeing_ with whatever Aiden put down in front of him, including an outrageously pink colour scheme Aiden had selected to try and incense him enough to protest. _But no._ Hot pink tablecloths, baby pink waistcoats, with short-cropped trousers, were perfectly _fine_. The caterer was the final straw though. When Lambert had pointed to the first name on the list without so much as glancing at the menu, Aiden nearly lost his temper and simply chucked the whole lot in the bin. Petulant. _Not fair._

Lambert hadn’t much say in his _first_ wedding, apparently. Keira’s father paid for everything - his baby would have the fairytale wedding of her dreams - and so it was Keira and her mother that pulled everything together. Lambert said he’d hated it and got outrageously drunk during the reception just so he could run up to the hotel bedroom and fall asleep. It was meant to be one of your dearest memories, and Lambert could only recall how bad the beer tasted, the fact that she’d chosen _The Police_ as their first dance and being told ‘you look after our baby, or else’ by people he’d never even _met_ before. Grooms really got a raw deal when it came to weddings. It hadn’t mattered at the time. He’d been so deeply in love; his entire world this blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel that he’d proposed to with a plastic ring from a Christmas cracker because he was a broke squaddie. It didn’t matter that the wedding wasn’t what he wanted or that her relatives squinted at him like a science fair project gone awry. He had Keira and then, four years later, he had Mason.

_Maybe the coast would be fine._

Aiden folded his arms on the edge of the pool and propped his chin on top of them. The tall window at the end of the room provided an excellent view out onto the golf course, and he watched as one of the players wound up for a birdie. His form was appalling; a pulled back waiting to happen.

_They hadn’t even discussed a honeymoon yet._

“Give me strength.” Aiden murmured to no one in particular as he hauled himself out the pool and headed into the changing rooms.

When he arrived home, Lambert was finishing up with Mason and Zoe. Aiden leaned over the back of the sofa to wave at them and - because they were Lambert’s children - they thanked him enthusiastically for their planned holiday in Cornwall. _Oh shit, he needed to actually book the time off for that._ Hopefully this damned fraud case that was absorbing his every iota of energy and time would be over by then. “You’re welcome,” he glanced at Lambert with a soft smile. “I’ll be upstairs.”

The ensuite flooded with the mixed scents of chlorine, body scrub and aftershave as he showered, shaved and trimmed. The promised suit was already hanging up on the front of the wardrobe doors and he ran his fingers down the expensive silk lining in apology. “It’s for a noble cause.” There probably wouldn’t be a lot of the fastenings left when Lambert was finished, which meant his thousand pound suit would be relegated to the dustbin. _The things you do for love._ He picked a plain white shirt and silver cufflinks encrusted with two purple gemstones that matched the tie and pocket handkerchief. The waistcoat was Lambert’s favourite part; a double-breasted number with golden buttons and space for a pocket watch Smithy left for him in his will. He could be forgiven for leaving that on the bedside table.

“Well, fuck, you went the whole hog.” Lambert grinned as he stepped into the bedroom, casting an appraising eye over the broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted back currently within view. It was the expensive Canali from the first shibari session and Lambert was already filling out the front of his jeans at the thought of rubbing his cock along the smooth material of that waistcoat. The buttons would roll along his shaft _just so_ and he’d rub his face in that silk tie and -

“Only the very best for you, kitten.” Aiden adjusted his cuffs and slid his hands into his pockets with an arched brow, but before he could get too comfortable in his stoic veneer, Lambert seized him by the waist and _threw_ him onto the bed. “Holy shit. Keen?”

“I got hard while Eskel’s boyfriend was tying me up. You owe me.”

“Oh, but was it the thought of Eskel watching, or perhaps _helpi_ \- ? Mmph.” A hand pressed over his mouth and green eyes narrowed.

“Don’t taint Care Bear for me. He’s pure and special.” Lambert tactfully ignored the raised eyebrow, took one of Aiden’s elbows and pushed his arm above his head, because he’d _prepared_ for this while doing the housework. The pillows ended up on the floor as he extracted the cuffs from where he’d hidden them away, and then carefully fastened one end around his captured wrist.

“You know, it’s been a very long time since a partner has dominated me in _any_ way.” 

“If you don’t stop talking, I’ll gag you with your own tie. How much was it? Couple hundred? Mm-mm-mm.” Lambert plucked it from inside Aiden’s waistcoat and then allowed the silk material to trickle over his forefinger back onto Aiden’s chest. “Worth every penny.” He stood up on the bed, feet planted either side of Aiden’s hips, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Featherlight fingertips fluttered over the back of his bare foot - Aiden still had one hand free after all - and Lambert mused over whether he should restrict the other one. _Nah._ He liked it when Aiden clenched things during his orgasm - the bed sheets, Lambert’s ass, anything - so it could stay. 

His belt clattered across the floor as he kicked his jeans and boxers away, and then finally sank back down completely naked. Aiden’s cock pushed the expensive wool of his slacks up against Lambert’s balls and he rubbed himself against it with a pleased growl. While one hand stroked up and down the shaft of his cock, he ran the other down the front of that waistcoat again, fingertips turning each individual button before following the seam of a pocket. His prick twitched against the palm of his hand and he leaned forward to slide the first dribbles of precum over Aiden’s stomach, leaving a milky streak over the dark material. “Mm, _fuck._ ”

 _Everything._ He loved _everything_ about Aiden in a suit. The way his starched collar sat around the column of his neck, with that neat windsor knot sat flush against his top button; the lapels that flared out across his chest and the waistcoat emphasised the curves of his pectoral muscles. Even the damn _jacket_ was a thing of beauty; it cut in over his narrow waist when it was done up, and just _the way_ his belt sat on his hips, the buckle just above the bulge at his crotch that could never be _fully_ disguised because Aiden was insanely fucking gifted, and - “Lambert, are you okay?”

“Hm?” Lambert blinked, because he’d completely spaced out in a daydream, grinding the weeping head of his cock along the seam of Aiden’s waistcoat. “Don’t dom me from the bottom - that’s not - sshh.” He placed a finger to his own lips, and then left briefly to grab the lube from the bedside drawer, because now he was _thinking_ about Aiden’s cock he _needed_ it. When he returned, Aiden was already trying to undo his belt, and Lambert batted his hand with a quiet growl. “Stop. _Mine._ ”

“Of course,” Aiden moved his fingers away and watched as Lambert worked his way into his trousers. As a warm palm slipped inside his boxers, Aiden’s head flopped back against the pillow again and he nibbled on his lower lip. “Gonna’ ride me, kitten?”

“Only if you’re a _good boy_ ,” Lambert growled back, thumb pushing over Aiden’s crown to make his hips buck off the bed. Only once Aiden was wet did his hand glide away, smoothing back up that waistcoat as he leaned over to tuck his nose against the line of his collar. The starched fabric rasped across the bristles of his beard and he sucked a hard kiss into smooth skin perfumed with expensive cologne; Aiden groaned, that free hand burying in Lambert’s hair, tugging in a demand for _more._ Lambert bit the column of his throat and ran his teeth across his jaw, tongue lapping the marks he left behind. 

All the while his hips rolled, the underside of his cock rubbing along the smooth material of the waistcoat beneath, the harder edges of the buttons sending sparks to nestle in his groin, even as Aiden’s prick slid through the spread cleft of his ass; hot and needy. “ _Aiden._ ” Whispered reverently beneath his partner’s chin, before he took that tie between his teeth and sat back. Lambert grabbed the bottle of lube he’d chucked onto the mattress and warmed it in his palm before reaching behind. He smothered Aiden from root to tip and then arched his back a little to slick the rest around his rim, fingertip slipping just inside. The front of Aiden’s abdomen was a mess of dark precome, and Lambert smirked as he sat himself lightly on Aiden’s head, tie dropping from his mouth. “Gonna’ beg m - ?”

He’d left a hand free. _First mistake._ Believed that Aiden was still feeling patient. _Second mistake._ Smirked and believed that, as he was on top, he had the upper hand. _Third mistake._ Aiden grabbed his hip and thrust off the bed. Lambert cried out as the thick head he’d been perched so mischievously upon split him open in the _best_ way. Without any prompting, he spread his thighs wide and sank down the rest of the way, his head tilting back in awe as each successive inch burned its ownership inside him. “Nnngh. You… bastard…” 

“If you ride me well, I might let you tie up both hands next time.” Aiden smoothed his palm up Lambert’s thigh, lifting his hips in a little roll of encouragement. “Come on, kitten. Get those hips moving.” 

“ _Let_ me - ?” It’d sound a lot more pissed off if his entire body wasn’t humming in pleasure already; gripping at Aiden’s cock like the needy fucking shit it was, desperate to scope out every inch like it was the first time. _It always felt as good as the first time_ . Something about being stuffed full with Aiden sprawled out in front of him, and - _argh,_ the suit covered in the marks he’d left. He knotted a hand in that tie and _pulled_ as he began an agile rock of his hips. It took precisely thirty seconds for him to lose himself to a relentless, swift rhythm; impatient and just _slightly_ pissed off that Aiden had one-upped him with one hand tied behind his back. _Almost literally._ “Grrr, fuck, _fuck._ ” 

“Lambert, you feel so great,” Aiden choked out, because the knot around his throat was pulling a little tighter, and it was _good._ His fingers clenched bruises into the thigh beneath them as his face began to redden, breath short, but not completely cut off. Just the sweet spot. “ _Ahh, mmm._ ” Somehow Lambert angled his hips and drove Aiden deeper, gasping and shaking, his grip on the tie in his hand faltering as the other hand stripped his cock in fervent, jerky motions. Aiden pushed his hand away and took over with a pulsating, firm grip that gave Lambert something to thrust into; he watched as the thick, red head of Lambert’s cock erupted out of his fist, stuttering only as Lambert peaked, his eyes rolling back as he pushed himself down hard onto Aiden’s hips. 

Aiden shimmied on the bed, shifting his cock inside the feverish clutch of Lambert’s body, and filled him moments later. The tie around his throat began to loosen as the tremors abated, and he wiped the palm of his hand down the front of his waistcoat. In the soft afterglow, he gazed up at Lambert - light of his life, guardian of his heart, keeper of his soul - and smiled. “You always look most beautiful with my prick inside you.”

“Coming from the man wearing a come-suit,” Lambert smirked, and then made a small, meak sound as Aiden shifted his hips. “Easy, moggie.” 

Aiden blinked. “Moggie?”

“Kitten not sounding so clever now, is it?” Lambert rolled off and swaggered his way into the bathroom, casting one final glance over his shoulder. “Stay there, I’m not finished.”

“I’m still handcuffed to the bed.”

“I don’t put it past you to know some kind of shibari shit that gets you out of restraints. Just wait one fucking minute. I need to refresh. I haven’t ruined the jacket or shirt yet.”

Aiden grinned at the ceiling. _Well, he did offer the whole suit, didn’t he?_

***

Songbird  
  
**Today** 7:05 PM   
How did the first interview go?  
I think it went well? How’s Eskel? Did he sleep?  
I confiscated his laptop. He threatened to withhold sex, and then he said he’d give Roach to the next door neighbour.  
Ouch. Angry Bear.  
It’s fine. He sucked my cock in the morning and took Roach for a walk as an apology. We have a more pressing matter.  
Which is?  
It’s his 40th birthday two days after you get back.  
Ring me. Now.  
  


“Geralt, what the hell?” Jaskier blustered down the phone, now pacing his hotel room. “You didn’t think to mention this a week ago? How did I not know this? How have we been together this long? I - .”

“He was in hospital last year. And he doesn’t like his birthday. I didn’t want to upset him.”

“But it’s his _fortieth_. That’s a _big_ milestone. I mean, he looks bloody amazing… like, _wow._ I forget you two are - wait, how old are you, Geralt?”

“I’m also forty. Last month.”

“ _Are you fucking kidding me?_ ” 

“No. I’m being serious.”

“Yes - yes, I know.” Jaskier slammed his forehead into a wall.

“Jaskier, are you alright?”

“Devastated, Geralt. How did we not celebrate your fortieth birthday? This - I’m -,” Jaskier sighed; _he was a bad partner._ First the lie about the shibari workshop, now he’d missed Geralt’s fortieth, and almost missed Eskel’s. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t like birthdays either. Eskel and I made a pact a while ago that we wouldn’t celebrate them, just Christmas.”

“So, why are you telling me now?”

“I want to do something special for Eskel,” Geralt shifted on the sofa and glanced at the front door as a key turned in the lock. “Conversation insecure. Text later.” He hung up just as Eskel stepped across the threshold.

“I vote we get a Chinese takeaway and drink until we pass out,” Eskel grumbled as he chucked his keys onto the lamp table and dropped his bag on the floor. “Thoughts?”

“Bad day?”

“I’ve never marked such a load of shit in _my life_. Professor Daniels and I swapped essays to give the students impartial gradings, and he’s either been asleep for the entire term, or they have.” Eskel ducked into the fridge and pulled out two beers before flopping on the sofa. Roach grumbled, but hopped onto the floor to make room. “I didn’t give anything higher than a two-two, and even then I had to bribe myself with hobnobs.”

“Hmm,” Geralt accepted the drink, but placed it to one side in favour of scooping Eskel closer to him. One leg slung over Eskel’s thigh, dressing gown falling away, while an arm slipped around his broad shoulders. Eskel’s hair was always so soft - _so ruffled_ \- it was the first thing Geralt liked to touch when he was near, and his hand buried in it straight away, massaging at the nape of his neck so that obsidian tendrils passed through his fingers like strands of silk. His _second_ favourite place was the set of tender ridges on the right side of Eskel’s face, so he teased and tickled those next. Hazel eyes fluttered and blinked rapidly as Geralt’s forefinger brushed over one dark eyebrow, and Geralt smiled as the last traces of disgruntled tension melted away. “Feeling better?”

“Yes…”

“Want more?”

“Please.”

Geralt tucked his nose beneath Eskel’s ear and slid a hand back into his hair; petting, tugging. His other hand sought his _other_ favourite places - because when it came to Eskel, Geralt had _many_ \- and he picked open a few buttons to play in the dark hair trailing over Eskel’s abdomen. It didn’t take long for those _big_ hands to tug open the belt of his dressing gown to touch his stomach and chest. Except -

“Geralt.”

“Mmhm,” murmured, because Geralt’s lips were sucking red marks into the side of Eskel’s neck.

“Roach is watching us.” Eskel’s hands stilled where they grasped Geralt’s waist and he leaned away from the mouth seeking his collarbone.

“Mmhm.” Not one to be put off so easily, Geralt shuffled close again and pawed open more shirt buttons, thumbs toying with hardened nipples when he finally reached high enough.

“No - no, sorry,” Eskel pulled away completely, and Geralt scowled. “Not while the dog’s watching _that_ intently. She must think I’m attacking you, or -.”

Geralt slumped back into the sofa, blue eyes narrowed and he pulled away the material of his dressing gown to display the full erection tenting the front of his boxers. “You’re very sensitive, Eskel,” he tilted his head. “I’ve never been cockblocked by a dog before.”

“I’m - we can - just - I’ll order the food.” Eskel lifted his ass off the sofa to dig his phone out of his back pocket. 

Their dinner arrived forty-five minutes later - special fried rice and beef in a black bean sauce for Geralt, singapore spiced chow mein and kung pow chicken for Eskel - and they ate it out of the cartons, because Jaskier wasn’t there to insist on plates and cutlery. A couple more beers and the evening news followed, Eskel slouched at the other end of the sofa as his food went down and Geralt took both his feet captive, thumbs massaging idly into the sole of each. Roach seemed to see this as an acceptable level of contact and settled in her bed. 

“She’s getting possessive over you.” Eskel grumbled as she skulked away.

“She didn’t growl or bite,” Geralt replied lightly, hooking Eskel’s socks off and folding them neatly on the back of the sofa. “You’re just being sensitive. I believe she was perfectly uninterested when Jaskier took you over the piano.”

Eskel flushed red. “Uh, he - he told you about that?”

“Yes. I’m disappointed he didn’t think to snap a picture with you bent over it.”

“A picture - ?” Eskel tried to sit up, but Geralt grabbed his ankle and kept him sprawled out in his current position.

“Yes. I like watching you two together, but I missed it,” Geralt teased his fingers over the back of Eskel’s foot and then up to his ankle. “I felt… left out.”

“Were you - did you feel jealous?” This was a worrying development.

“No. Not jealous,” Geralt smiled, which made his next comment so _unexpected_. “ _Horny._ And marginally frustrated. I think we should model the kind of thing I expect.”

Eskel stared, open-mouthed. _What did he even say to that?_ He squirmed as Geralt tickled the heel of his foot. “Model?”

“Yes. We’ll go upstairs. I’ll fuck you, and I’ll take some pictures on my phone and send them to him. Today must’ve been quite tiring, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

“You - I - umm.” Eskel stuttered. Geralt folded his arms, head tilted to the side _in that way he did_ and Eskel wasn’t entirely sure where to look. His face was _burning_ red. “Do you - uh - is that - really - ?”

“Prude.”

“I’m _not_ a prude,” Eskel growled back. “I’m just not the neatest at the moment, because - you know, deadlines - and -,”

“Hmm,” Geralt pushed Eskel’s feet onto the floor and clambered from the sofa. “Roach. Sleep.” The fluffy cloud that was their red cockapoo padded her way to her basket as Geralt clicked off the television and headed towards the stairs. “Eskel. Bed.” 

“Oh, oh, no. You - I am not - a dog,” Eskel blustered as he obediently rose from the sofa, grabbed his beer and did as he was told. “You can’t just give me a command and I’ll just obey it. We’re not enlisted anymore.” He continued to protest as he followed Geralt’s pointing finger up the stairs and along the landing. “Furthermore -,” he placed his beer on the bedside table and shrugged his shirt off when Geralt gestured at it, followed by his slacks when Geralt raised an eyebrow, “- I’m not sure I want my ass immortalised on camera.”

“It’s a nice ass.” Geralt murmured as he nudged the bedroom door shut and checked the battery on his phone and pointed at Eskel’s boxers now that he had stripped down to them. “You’re hard.”

“Mm.” Eskel fidgeted, as if he’d been caught in a particularly embarrassing faux pas, and then melted when Geralt wrapped him up in a tight embrace complemented by a deep kiss; Geralt’s dressing gown pooled on the floor and Eskel buried his face against his neck as firm hands ran down his back to grip his ass. 

“We don’t have to.” Geralt mumbled into Eskel’s hair as he nudged his boxers down his thighs. His prick sat heavily in Geralt’s palm, swelling thicker still, and he pulled away to look down at it in thoughtful admiration. _What would it feel like inside?_ It felt like a rod of iron in his fingers, with the heat of the forge still coursing through the thick veins that pulsed to the head. 

“Something wrong?” Eskel swallowed and followed Geralt’s eyes down, gasping quietly when a gentle thumb circled over his slit. 

“Just pausing to admire a work of art,” Geralt said, before stripping away his own boxers to line his cock up against Eskel’s in his hand. The other settled on Eskel’s hip and guided him into a slow sway; the slick of their precome lending to a smooth glide of velvety skin. Geralt tightened his grip and Eskel grunted, gripping his shoulders for purchase as he thrust just a little bit harder. “Is this what you want, bear?” His tone edged with breathless pleasure.

“Nrff, just - I want you. Tell me - tell me to - ,” Eskel growled, forehead leaning to Geralt’s chest, vaguely aware that he was asking for _orders._ Future Eskel could deal with that, because present Eskel was mesmerised by the view of his cock rutting over Geralt’s inside his vice grip. 

“Wanna’ be inside you. Want Jaskier to watch, and then I’m going to watch you both come.” 

“Nngh.” Eskel’s prick twitched in Geralt’s palm and he dropped a hand away to squeeze his balls to kill his orgasm, because that was _too_ quick. “Okay. Just - no pictures. FaceTime - or - .”

“Alright. On your knees.” 

Eskel clambered gracelessly onto the bed, back twisted so that he could watch Geralt over his shoulder. His partner disappeared briefly out of sight, clicked the two bedside lamps on, and then returned with a glistening cock and two slick fingers that immediately stroked around Eskel’s hole. He held his phone in the other hand and… dialled Jaskier. 

“Good evening, songbird.” Only Geralt’s face and chest were currently visible.

“Geralt, are we going to discuss what - ? Hang on, what was that?” Because Geralt hooked his fingers and a moan broke out of Eskel’s chest before he could stop it.

“You somewhere private?”

“In my hotel room.” Jaskier squinted, and then his eyes widened. The only time Geralt’s eyes went _that_ hazy, with pupils _that_ big was when - “Please tell me I just heard Eskel moan.”

“You did.”

“F - fuck, Geralt - that - .” A third finger joined, hand moving just a little faster and making the filthiest noises as Eskel’s body clamped down on them.

“Geralt, turn the camera, right now. I - holy fuck, hang on - .” Jaskier’s image flipped and turned as he bundled himself onto his bed and wriggled out his pyjama bottoms, because he knew _full well_ how devastatingly hot the image he was about to see would be. “Ready.” Geralt tapped the ‘reverse camera’ icon and Jaskier let out a shuddering sigh; Eskel was spread open on Geralt’s fingers. They slid in to the last knuckle with each thrust, leaving a glistening trail of lubricant to drip down the back of his balls. “Fuck, _fuck._ Are you - ? Can I watch you - ?”

“That’s the idea, songbird. What shall I do with him?”

Jaskier _definitely_ didn’t squeak. “Give him what he likes. I want to hear him,” he breathed. “Eskel, I love you, bear.”

Eskel made a nondescript noise that sounded vaguely like a whined ‘you too’, but it was lost in the fabric of the duvet as he dropped his chest and presented himself with splayed knees. The loss of Geralt’s fingers left him bereft, but he was immediately satisfied by the hot, blunt cock that pressed against his eager hole. “ _Geralt_. C’mon, _please._ ” 

“Was he loud enough?” Geralt asked Jaskier, who was definitely palming his prick. “Jaskier, let me see what you’re - mm.” Eskel shuffled back, forcing Geralt a little deeper. “ _Needy._ ”

“You can’t just _hold it there_ and - ahh - haa!” 

Geralt pushed his hips forward in a single, fluid thrust that buried him down to the hilt. Jaskier watched as Eskel’s body yielded in the same beautiful way it had to his over the piano. Geralt held Eskel still with one hand to issue his last order, because he knew that if he started moving, he’d lose the capacity to do more than growl and moan. “I want to see what - you’re doing with - your hand, songbird.”

“Okay,” Jaskier changed his camera angle and showed Geralt his cock, hard and red, against his palm. “This is probably the hottest thing I have ever experienced. Just so you know.” _And he’d been worried about the shibari - what the actual - well, alright, it was a tad different, but - oh fuck, now Geralt was actually thrusting and -_

Eskel covered his head with his hands. The embarrassment was burning through him, but even as his stomach knotted the simple taboo of it filled him with pleasure. He’d sent Jaskier a few snaps when they’d first started dating, but Eskel had a formidable lack of self esteem; this was a whole new level for him and he balanced on the edge of anxiety, until his brain tuned into Geralt and the continuous stream of adoration currently spilling from a usually fairly mute mouth.

“Eskel, you’re so beautiful like this - Jaskier’s a wreck, mmm, nff - you feel so good on my cock; warm and tight - you make me hard at work sometimes when I just think about you - .” Growled in those bass, gravelly tones as he punched deep with each thrust; the wet skin of his hips connecting with Eskel’s ass in a wet, filthy slap that even Jaskier could hear at the other end of the phone. “- I’ve been thinking about you all of today, wanted you - taste you, feel you - .” 

Geralt wasn’t a man of words, but Eskel _was_ , and Geralt _knew_ it. He knew precisely how much better his tirade of adoration was making the experience; the eager clench of Eskel’s body, the buck of his hips backwards into each thrust, the way he kneaded desperately at the blankets. The glorious burn of Geralt’s prick - so much, so _full_ \- made all the sweeter by the stream of praise. Eskel could vaguely hear Jaskier panting on the other end of the phone, but mostly his mind was melting out of his ears as Geralt fucked him; angling his hips _perfectly_ , with a _relentless_ pace. When Geralt touched his cock, it took barely a few firm tugs before Eskel hit his peak, vision edging in white. If it weren’t for that same hand returning to his hip, Eskel would’ve folded into the bed, but Geralt continued until Eskel was shuddering and gasping with hypersensitivity; the desperate spasm of his body enough to tease Geralt over.

Jaskier bit his lower lip as Geralt’s softened cock withdrew from Eskel’s hole, bringing with it a trail of spend that dripped down the back of Eskel’s heavy balls. It was enough to set his mind alight and he pushed his head back into the pillows behind him as he came into his palm. The only sound from either end of the line shivering pants until Geralt turned the camera back. “We love you, Jaskier. Good luck tomorrow.” 

Their songbird - soon to be spybird if all went well - kissed the screen and hung up.

“Did you - uh - did you mean what you were saying?” Eskel’s voice was almost too soft to hear.

“Hm?” Geralt grabbed Eskel’s boxers from the floor and used the outside to mop away enough of the lube and come for him to be comfortable.

“You know - about work - and - .” Eskel tugged at the duvet to make a space for both of them, and Geralt slipped in at his side. Even he could recognise _this_ for what it was. A search for validation; a request for confirmation that it was actually _true_. That Eskel was loved and _lusted_ after, because he _really_ couldn’t see it himself. He believed himself to be undeserving. Even still.

Geralt pulled his bear close and tilted his head back until their eyes met. “I meant every word,” he paused. “Did you like it?”

Eskel flushed. Geralt could feel the heat against his fingers. “Yes.”

“Hmm.” He shimmied down in bed. “Good.”


	9. Another Day, Another Suit [Art - NSFW]

* * *

"Hnngh, fuck, _Aiden!_ "

* * *

**Work completed by the brilliant Frisky (sometimes Friendly) Pigeon.**  
Take a look at TheFriskyPigeon [(@_FriskyPigeon)](https://twitter.com/_FriskyPigeon?s=09)

* * *


	10. Binding a Bear

The entire interview process was gruelling. There were multiple stages, several exams and a teamwork exercise - the worst part - but Jaskier believed it had gone well. He’d know in a week. _A week_ until his path in life became clear. The train journey passed in a haze of short catnaps and aimless social media scrolling. Triss text to find out how his job interview went - he hadn’t been able to tell her due to the stringent restrictions on the application process - and he replied with tentative positivity. Another from Eskel on the group chat telling him to be safe, and then nothing. _Odd._ Usually he got at least four or five texts a day. He liked it. _Expected it._

Thankfully, the Audi waited for him outside Cambridge station. Geralt tucked his phone away into the centre console as Jaskier flopped into the passenger seat. “Urgh, so good to be back. Can’t wait for a shower and a cuddle.”

“Hmm,” Geralt pressed the ignition next to the steering wheel, but didn’t reach for the handbrake. “Eskel is upset, Jaskier. You may not get your cuddle this evening.”

“What? Upset? Why? What’s happened?”

“Lambert came over to watch the sevens game with us. He mentioned the shibari workshop. He didn’t seem to be aware that it was meant to be a secret.”

 _Oh shit._ “Uh, Geralt. I - I can explain.” Because Aiden had said he _wouldn’t_ interfere, which meant _not_ briefing his partner to lie or otherwise obscure the truth. 

“I’m sure,” Geralt murmured, and then finally drove out the car park and towards the dual carriageway. “Did they tell you when you’ll hear about the interview?”

“A week,” Jaskier sunk down into the passenger seat and rubbed his eyes. “How much trouble am I in?”

“Trouble? You’re not a child, Jaskier.”

“Oh, _that_ much.” Jaskier flinched. “Something tells me I’m not going to get out of this one by writing another essay.” When feeling awkward, Jaskier defaulted to humour, but Geralt just raised an eyebrow and said nothing. The rest of the drive passed in silence, only broken by the late night news. It was nearly midnight so Jaskier shouldn’t have been surprised when they stepped into the flat and all the lights were off.

_Eskel hadn’t waited up to see him._

“I’ll, umm… I think I’ll sleep in one of the spare rooms.” Jaskier kept his bag on his shoulder as he petted the top of Roach’s head; she was too tired to get out of her bed and lazily wagged her tail in greeting. 

"Don't be a coward." Geralt shrugged out of his coat and strode across the living room to the stairs. "You'll upset him more."

 _Ouch._ Jaskier physically flinched as Geralt just cut straight in with the truth bomb. He _had_ been a coward. But surely Eskel wouldn't want him anywhere near - _fuck_ , he could just imagine those big, wounded hazel eyes and the anxious touch to the side of his face; the physical representation of everything that made him feel low. "Geralt, help me make this right."

"Hmm," was the answer as the unhelpful git followed him up the stairs and they entered the bear's den together. Thankfully, Eskel was actually asleep, curled up on the far side of the bed with his arm tucked beneath his head. They both undressed silently and slipped under the duvet, with Geralt taking point by wrapping about Eskel's broad back. The kiss he pressed to one shoulder received a quiet, sleepy response. "Jaskier home?"

"Yes."

"Good." And he was asleep again.

If only it was that easy for Jaskier, who laid awake most of the night fretting over what he was going to say. At least Eskel was still happy he was home, right?

***

Jaskier was waiting on the sofa when Eskel and Geralt returned from their morning run. "I think I need to see a physio, but I'm worried they'll just tell me to stop running," the continuation of a conversation, but Eskel trailed off as he looked up and saw a set of blue eyes watching him over the back of the sofa. "You look like you're about to be sacrificed to the old Gods, Jaskier."

"Oh, just the Bear God I think."

Geralt smirked. "That's what your first name means."

"Yeah, thanks Geralt." Eskel cast him a cowing glare but received only a small smile in return. "Shower, then talk." 

They showered with military efficiency, which was a shame because if Geralt had worked Eskel over for a while, Jaskier figured it might have mellowed him out a bit. As it stood he was already a little bit taken aback. There was no shouting, no cold shoulder… just, Eskel. And that was worse. Somehow. Jaskier made them both a coffee and a pint glass of squash, and watched from the sofa as they emerged from Eskel’s bedroom, clean and dressed.

"Eskel, Geralt, I'm - I'm sorry." Jaskier blustered and then bit his tongue. 

"We know," Eskel flopped down on the sofa and grabbed the coffee first. "Geralt said you went grey when he mentioned it. Think one sleepless night is enough of a punishment."

"Really? You're - that's it? No shouting, no - ."

"Jaskier I'm unhappy that you lied," Eskel sighed, and glanced at Geralt who nodded in agreement. "But in the grand scheme of things, you've been a bit of a dick. You didn't cheat, hurt anyone, commit a crime. But why didn't you just say?"

"I was… worried. I didn't want to make you do something that made you uncomfortable, and I wanted to know how to do it properly so I… so I didn't hurt you." It was about then that realisation dawned. Jaskier was talking to two men who had been through _so much_ ; they had a very different perspective on life to the _average_ person. Something like this probably felt _trivial,_ but it had been so hard to gauge. _Oh, I've been a fucking moron._

"Right." Eskel considered the mug in his hands. "I can understand your logic."

"But?"

"Don't lie to us, I - you deserve your privacy, of course, but this was different, and - ." There was the crack. Eskel touched his face and Jaskier left his seat without thinking. He pressed close to Eskel's side and wrapped his shoulders in a tight embrace.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want exactly this feeling." Jaskier held Eskel until big arms wrapped around him and the shoulders beneath his forearms relaxed. _One down._ He looked up to Geralt, who was perched on the arm of the sofa with Roach sat down at his feet. "Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Are you - are we - ?"

"We're fine."

 _Fine._ _Urgh._ "Alright," Jaskier squinted, examining that carefully neutral expression in search of the truth. Geralt sighed heavily through his nose, clearly deducing that his word wasn't quite enough, and he grabbed Jaskier by the back of the head to pull him against his side for an embrace. "Oof." Once he was free again, Jaskier sat back and glanced between them. "So, it's the fact that I told you I was going out with Triss, it's not _what_ I was doing."

"No, Lambert told us," Geralt sipped his coffee. "After a bit of encouragement."

Jaskier looked confused, and Eskel chuckled. "We sat on him until he told us everything."

"You _sat_ on him?" Jaskier asked, incredulous.

"Yes, it's quite an effective method of getting information out of Lambert," Geralt murmured. "It sounds quite interesting, but we could have taught you how to tie knots."

Eskel nodded in agreement, but now it was Jaskier's turn to chuckle. "It's a bit different to tying knots. There's an… an art to it. Lots of different techniques, and -," he trailed off. "The next one is on Friday. Can you come with me? Both of you."

"How big is the class?" Geralt was taking the lead on the interrogation apparently.

"About fifteen in total."

"Do you have to remove any clothes?" 

"Well, no," Jaskier paused. "I mean, for some of the ties it's easier to take your shirt off. But…"

"I won't be attending." Geralt left the arm of the sofa and clicked his tongue at Roach. _Time for a walk._

"Hang on, Geralt," Eskel held up a hand having watched Jaskier's face fall. "Lambert said he was the guinea pig. Does that mean you only need one person to practice on?"

"Yes." Jaskier fiddled with the hem of his t-shirt, but he couldn't hide his disappointment from Eskel, someone so very versed in reading other people even if he struggled with his own head sometimes.

"Fine, then you can both use - I mean, I'll be the… guinea pig."

"Well, the technical term is rope bunny." 

"Rope… bunny." Eskel repeated each word like it had a sour taste. "Right. Okay. I can do that. You're just going to tie me up for a bit and… that's it?"

"Yes, there's no actual sex. It's not a sex club." _Jaskier was pretty sure it didn't count as one anyway._ Lambert had got rather - _hmm._ He'd have to Google it. 

"So, Friday," Eskel nodded and stood. "Geralt, you're coming. No, don't try the glare on me, it's never worked. Say yes. It's something Jaskier wants to try so we should both be there."

The argument was visible in Geralt's posture; his shoulders squared, fists clenched, jaw set. But instead of biting back, he simply sighed. "Fine," and then left with Roach in tow.

"We shouldn't make him if he won't be comfortable." Jaskier murmured.

"He'll be fine. And if you're going to truss me up like a beef joint then he can bloody well be there to hold my hand." Eskel collected Geralt's empty mug from the coffee table and walked over to the kitchen.

"It'll be quite the fortieth birthday present." Jaskier turned to rest his chin on the back of the sofa.

"Geralt told you." A statement, not a question.

"You were just going to hope I never asked when your birthday was, weren't you?"

"I don't celebrate it." Eskel placed the dirty mugs in the dishwasher and kicked the door shut.

"Why not?"

"Poor childhood memories. Geralt's the same. Bit pissed he mentioned mine; we had a deal."

"He wanted to do something special. I think it's sweet." Jaskier turned and propped his chin on the back of the sofa. "At least let us treat you to dinner the night after? They don't recommend heavy meals before the session, so…"

"Dinner," Eskel considered it, hands propped on the kitchen counter behind him. "Fine. Dinner. No cards, no birthday cake, and no singing."

Jaskier's face fell with each denial. "Give me the card and the present at least." If they went for dinner on Saturday evening, then he could go out with Geralt to source a good gift from the both of them. Jaskier already had an idea what he wanted to get, but barely had time to breathe while in London. 

Eskel tried to ignore the big, blue eyes glistening at him from across the room, but they were his kryptonite. "Card and present. Nothing outrageously expensive." A warning finger wagged vaguely in Jaskier’s direction as Eskel walked towards the stairs; he had to be at work in an hour. Jaskier had the rest of the week off. 

"Deal." Jaskier let out a sigh of relief and slumped back on the sofa; he was already asleep when Eskel walked by with his satchel and jacket, pausing only to place a kiss on his forehead.

***

Friday night came around far too quickly. Jaskier felt like he needed another day to psyche himself up. They took the Audi on Aiden's recommendation; Eskel might want the comfort of the familiar afterwards. Despite agreeing to come, Geralt said absolutely nothing beyond quiet hums and Eskel was _definitely_ anxious, but doing a very good job of crushing it down. 

It was a relief to see Aiden when they pulled up in the usual car park; his quiet confidence and easy smile were contagious. "Good evening, gentlemen."

"Evening," Eskel chucked his jacket back into the car and locked it behind him. Much like Jaskier had the first time, he seemed fairly taken aback by the locale and the nature of the other attendees. "I'm having flashbacks to when my father tried to make me join the scouts."

Lambert, who'd been skulking around behind Aiden and decidedly _not_ making eye contact with either Geralt or Eskel, huffed a derisive laugh. "Well, they both have homoerotic rope tying."

"You are such a class act, kitten." Aiden rolled his eyes and grabbed Lambert by the elbow as he headed towards the entrance. "Shall we?"

The same woman, with her mumsy blouse and warm, welcoming smile signed them in, and Geralt exchanged a glance with Eskel as they stepped into the hall. Aiden had asked them to arrive earlier than usual; he thought it would help if Eskel and Geralt were among the first and therefore felt a bit of ownership over the space when the others trickled in. Jaskier coaxed them over to the tea and biscuits, relieved to see a hobnob or two lying between the custard creams and chocolate digestives. Small victories. Eskel, of course, ate both.

Others began to arrive as they reached the bottom of their styrofoam cups and the instructor called them to order. Jaskier took Eskel by the hand and led him to a spot with a corner behind them. "Kneel here, I think - , " he glanced up at the model rope bunny, who stood in a crop top, "- yes, you need to take your shirt off."

Eskel sighed and undid the first three buttons at the top before pulling his shirt over his head. He knelt down where guided; the coils of rope next to the mat made him a little uneasy, so he looked around the room . "Lambert and I are the only - uh," he paused, not wanting to assume as he glanced from face to face. "Have we got savlon at home?" 

"I think so, why?"

"For the rope burn." 

"Oh, Eskel," Jaskier frowned, and stroked the backs of his fingers down a scarred cheek. "There won't be any. I promise. You agreed to this thinking it would hurt?"

"I - ," Eskel cast his eyes down. "I thought it might. Googled some pictures too." Geralt, who had been toying with one of the ropes, idly tying a tautline hitch off his finger, now moved in close and placed a gentle kiss on Eskel's shoulder; he didn't want to be here, but as he was he was going to sure as hell offer comfort where he could.

Meanwhile, Aiden was observing Lambert carefully. His kitten was tense. His back straight, his fists clenched on top of his thighs, and every muscle in his torso rigid. Aiden stroked the side of Lambert's face and then his hair, circling and scritching where he knew Lambert liked it most, before pulling him forward in an embrace. When he spoke, he whispered softly. "Need you to try and relax, not gonna do this if you're resisting."

"I'm fine. Just do it."

"No," Aiden nuzzled a kiss just below the ear he was whispering into. "Look at Eskel. He's anxious, perhaps even a little intimidated. He's not judging you, he'll be looking to you for guidance. You need to show him it's okay."

Lambert huffed. "But Geralt is - ."

"- worried about his lover and unsure how to help. Hasn't looked this way once."

Lambert glanced to his left and studied the scene with a critical eye. Aiden was right. Eskel was doing that grasping thing with his hands when he was nervous, and Geralt was frowning, looking a little lost. _Ahh fuck, time to fill his role as class clown._ "Hey, Care Bear," Lambert smirked when Eskel looked over. "What d'ya think of my gains?" He flexed a bicep, then huffed dismissively when Eskel did the same and Mount Everest suddenly sprung up on his fucking arm. "For fuck's sake… that's it, Aiden. We're moving into the gym."

Aiden, who was reminding himself _repeatedly_ and _forcefully_ that he was a damned adult and not a horny teenager, smiled and flicked his chin. "They don't allow pets. Now, stop flexing or I won't be able to control myself." 

"Me or Eskel?" Lambert asked, innocently.

Aiden met those mischievous puppy eyes and glared. "Both." He whispered and grabbed the first coil of rope. 

They were practicing kotobu ryo tekubi - or 'bunny ears' - first of all. Jaskier picked up the same thickness of rope he'd used in the previous two sessions, and Eskel placed his wrists together without a word. A well of tension coiled in Jaskier's chest suddenly as he realised just how much responsibility lay before him. _Look at Eskel's face_ , so open, and _trusting._ Jaskier hesitated with the rope over the top of Eskel's wrists, fingers circling over the back of those big hands in hopes they may lend some of their strength but for a moment. Then another set appeared over the top, a firm chest pressed to his back - _Geralt_ \- and the warmth of those broad palms seemed to melt the paralysis away. Jaskier blinked out of his stupor. "Tell me if this is too tight, alright? Pins and needles, numbness; they're bad."

"Okay." Eskel watched as Jaskier carefully bound the double column tie around his wrists, wriggling his fingers a bit to test the feeling; he cast a quick glance across to Lambert who already had his hands pulled back over his head. Aiden worked quickly and efficiently; Eskel also now realised where the nickname came from. "Oh, so the elbows are the ears. They're really going with the rabbit theme, hm?"

"Yeah. Right, I think that's good… still feel this?" He tickled his fingers over Eskel's hands and grinned when he received a thoughtful nod. Geralt shuffled back a little so that Jaskier could wiggle free, guide Eskel's hands behind his neck, and begin wrapping the tie around his chest just below his pecs; he finished with an overhand knot in the centre of his back, but had a lot of excess rope hanging down over his backside. _Hmm_.

Eskel shuffled and flexed against the tie, because Geralt was gazing at him very _intently_ now that his arms were pulled back.Hazel eyes dropped to the floor as an unfamiliar sensation built in the pit of his stomach; a heady mixture of pleasure and vulnerability. He’d felt both before. _Separately._ Vulnerability on its own was unpleasant, but right now it made his skin prickle, and one thought percolated through his mind: _touch me._ He definitely didn't say it out loud, but his expression - lips parted, eyes wide - must have given him away. Geralt reached out and rested his fingertips lightly against Eskel's chest, that pressure blossomed into a fully fledged _feeling_ that rippled outwards, up his spine and across his shoulders. The contact was so slight - a gentle caress through the dark hair down to the top of his abdomen - but he couldn't push it away even if he wanted to and that… _couldn't - it -_ . Eskel yanked at the bindings instinctively and the ropes tugged into his skin; he made a sound that _usually_ only happened in an intimate space. A quiet gasped, "ahh."

"Are you okay?" Jaskier leaned forward and wrapped his arms lightly around Eskel's waist, lips pressing to one raised bicep.

"Y - yeah, it's - I'm fine." Eskel stuttered, because it wasn't discomfort that blossomed out from that light touch, but something warm and… indecent for their public setting. Flushed, he glanced up at Geralt's face, and then tried to hunker down. Geralt had other ideas and placed his knuckle beneath Eskel's chin to lift his head again; it was a wordless command, but when Geralt dropped his hand away, Eskel obeyed and didn’t cower again.

"Aiden, can you come and help with the next part? I'm - ," Jaskier carefully passed the two lengths of rope between Eskel's legs and moved around the front, but he wasn't sure how to comfortably connect them back to the coil of rope beneath Eskel's chest and not leave a ton of slack. The instructor was busy with someone else.

"I'll just be a moment, kitten." Aiden whispered gently to Lambert, who grunted a distant reply. Once he'd realised Eskel and Geralt weren't fastidiously recording material to tease him with, it'd been fairly effortless to ease him towards a hazy space. Pretty brown eyes were misty and he was happily enjoying the mischievous tickles lavished over his ribs.

When he was sure his own bunny was comfortable, Aiden shuffled over to Eskel, and - _oh, fuck_ ; a bit of subtle nose breathing was necessary. It was the obliques that did it for him. The way the muscle slanted down towards the waistband in that little v-shape; Lambert had it and Aiden worshipped it every time. Eskel was just… a Greek God, and Aiden's brain dredged up that little fantasy he nurtured of getting two men to work Lambert over, and then - "Right. Let me see. Do a little overhand here, and then you can wrap the remainder of the rope in a spiral to really secure the bind."

"Can you show us?" Jaskier offered the rope; Geralt had moved behind Eskel to examine the knot in the middle of his back, and the loops around his wrists. It was Eskel's reaction he was most interested in though. The goosebumps running down the backs of his arms, the way each muscle group tested the restraint of the ropes with enticing little flexes. Eskel could bench press him without breaking a sweat, and here he was restrained and vulnerable. He slid his fingers into Eskel's palms and, when his lover's grip tightened a fraction, placed a kiss on his shoulder. The desire to coax another one of those quiet gasps was _strong_ , but he didn't want Eskel to feel embarrassed; his self esteem was low enough without feeling ashamed on top of that.

With the ropes in hand, Aiden tried to focus on the task as clinically as he could. It was difficult. Eskel had a very… masculine scent; faint cologne, aftershave, perhaps a little bit of clean sweat because it'd been a bit warm. Not to mention how _warm_ his skin was. Aiden's fingers had to brush across his abdomen as he demonstrated the neatest way to wrap excess rope without discomfort, and he could feel his heart in his ears. "Never tie off over pressure points. Very uncomfortable. Dangerous too. Eskel, how're your arms?"

Eskel blinked at him in confusion. Question? _Words._ "Umm," he cleared his throat. "Fine."

"Good, you're doing so we--," Aiden caught himself, with his tone and his desire to soothe a submissive; he cast a quick glance across to Jaskier who was more interested in the perplexed look on Eskel's face, "keep talking to Jaskier and Geralt, don't become uncomfortable." With that, he returned to Lambert and immediately placed both hands on him to ground himself. "Forgive me," he whispered, "but your best friend needs to rail you while I watch at some point before I die." 

Lambert smirked, and then flopped happily against Aiden's chest. "Pervert." 

"Never pretended otherwise." 

The workshop progressed onto a star harness with arms immobilised behind the back in a more neutral position. They added a lower body tie around the hips and between the legs to finish the feeling of being cradled; the instructor went through a bit of waffle about something called chi and he referred to a ‘sakura’, but none of the five of them were really listening. Geralt was transfixed; he watched every trace of tension leave Eskel's body until he had to prop him up against his chest. His breathing was even, body warm - no distress - but he was so… _absent,_ Geralt had to check. "Eskel?"

"Mm?" An airy reply with only a scant upwards inflection. 

"Status?"

"Nice."

 _That wasn't a standard response_ , but it'd do. Geralt locked eyes with Jaskier, who was kneeling back now the final knot was finished; they exchanged a smile. A shared understanding that _something_ was working for Eskel here, and they _both_ liked the result. As always, the final part of the session was given over for some quiet communication and intimacy. Aiden wrapped himself around Lambert and whispered gently in his ear, while Eskel ended up sitting back in Geralt's lap, with his knees spread so that Jaskier could kneel between them. Those beautiful hazel eyes were big, but not anxious, and Jaskier ran his hands over Eskel's chest until his mouth fell open. "Feel good?"

"Mmm." Eskel hummed, knees pushing out further as the ropes between his legs emphasised just _how good_ it felt; his jeans were uncomfortably restrictive and he wanted nothing more than for Jaskier to free him; to put that beautiful mouth to a better use than sultry, infuriating smiles. 

The rest of the world didn't exist anymore. 

Just the slow rise and fall of Geralt's chest behind him, the touch of Jaskier's hands as they walked the seam between rope and skin and the occasional ebb of pleasure as the ropes tugged somewhere good. Even his thoughts, usually a maelstrom of noise and anxiety, were muted. _Silent._ The only flutter of activity in his mind was the instinctual, immediate wants and desires that came from having his lovers so near; touch me now, kiss me here, pull that rope. Eskel's head flopped back onto Geralt's shoulder, the curve of his back pressing the ropes into his chest, and he bit back the softest moan. 

Geralt’s arms tightened protectively, mouth pressed to the slope of Eskel’s shoulder; this wasn’t something he wanted to share with anyone but Jaskier now that he knew it existed. It was a relief when the session ended and they carefully undid the knots. Eskel required a little bit of support to find his feet again and he passed the car keys across to Geralt. “I feel a bit - ,” he paused to look for the appropriate word and only came up with one, “- drunk.” _And sensitive as all hell._ Jaskier touched the inside of his elbow and his body reacted as if he’d slipped that hand down his pants. They bid goodbye to Aiden and Lambert, the latter flopping into the car seat with an errant wave over his shoulder, before heading back to the estate.

Although he calmed down on the drive from Cambridge, Eskel still grabbed Jaskier and threw him over his shoulder when they arrived back home. “You’re going to fuck me until I can’t breathe after what you just put me through,” he informed his captive, and then turned to Geralt. “Coming?”

“I’ll be right with you. Just going to open the mail.” He indicated the pile of letters he’d scooped up from the mat. It was one of his _hang ups_ , so Eskel simply nodded and carried a very _smug_ looking Jaskier up to the bedroom. Geralt opened each letter quickly - keen to watch Eskel get his revenge - and didn’t check the name on any of them; if he saw either Eskel or Jaskier’s name at the top, he set it carefully into a separate pile. Bills, general circulars, and then -

* * *

Mr Lambert Murphy  
The Keep  
Morhen Avenue  
Cambridge  
CB24 6AZ

9th May 2020

Dear Mr Murphy,

We are writing to you on behalf of your father, Mr. Albert Murphy, as part of his end of life care. He has asked that we make contact with you to inform you of his terminal illness (further details of the diagnosis can be found below), and request that you visit as soon as is convenient…

* * *

Geralt continued to read, even though he really shouldn’t. He’d known some of Lambert’s past - the fact that he was taken into care shortly before becoming a teenager, that his father was an abusive thug - but not much more. According to the document in Geralt’s hand, Mr Murphy Senior was currently incarcerated in HMP Thameside for armed robbery, manslaughter and a multitude of other sins. This was going to do damage. Geralt glanced at the bin. _No. No, definitely not. That wasn’t his place. Needed to let him know._ Geralt took out his phone to take a picture and then stopped. _No. Not the right way._ Eskel would take it to him and then sit there to coach him through, so that’s what Geralt should do. Except, Geralt was shit at that type of thing. He glanced up at the stairs - he wanted to deal with this _now_ \- but could hear Eskel’s muffled moans as Jaskier began to tease him.

_Urgh, fuck. Deal with it tomorrow._


	11. Avoidance and Obstacles

Choosing a restaurant for Eskel’s birthday meal was relatively easy; he wanted to return to the Greek taverna where the three of them had shared their first date. Sweet, really. They hadn’t been back there for some months so Geralt rang and booked a table. 

Getting him a _present_ , on the other hand, proved to be an impossibility. They traipsed aimlessly around shops hoping for inspiration to strike; Jaskier’s initial idea had been thoroughly dashed when Geralt suggested a family portrait might cause Eskel a lot of stress, and then was no help at all in suggesting a replacement. His focus was now hyper fixated on researching shibari and other forms of bondage. The previous evening Eskel had been in his room working on his thesis—really needed to get it done, panel interview was in a month—and Geralt sat on the sofa next to Jaskier scrolling through his phone, watching videos and _taking notes._

They sat in the Costa opposite the Grand Arcade now. Jaskier sipped on an iced latte, and Geralt tapped lightly on the edge of his Americano as he scrolled through yet more research on his phone. “What about a book?” Jaskier grumbled; yes, he was running out of ideas.

“He likes books, but he has quite a few of them. If we were going to source a first edition of something, then we needed to have done it sooner,” Geralt tilted his head as a woman behind him huffed in disgust. _She shouldn’t have been reading over his shoulder then._ “How long do you think we could edge Eskel for?”

Jaskier turned red _instantly_. Because, of course, edging and orgasm delay was a perfectly acceptable topic of conversation in the middle of Costa. “Umm, I don’t know. There are certain things that make him come quite quickly, and—,” he glanced over his shoulder, voice barely a whisper. “Can we discuss this when we get home?”

“Hmm.” Geralt opened another tab in his browser and reviewed his recent purchases. For a while, he debated with himself over the type of rope to use; his research told him that synthetic rope was more likely to burn, but was stronger, whereas natural rope was weaker—and couldn’t be used in the shower—but was less likely to burn. In the end he went with hemp, because if Eskel was fighting enough to break it, then something was clearly wrong (and cotton could be difficult to undo, apparently). He’d also bought a single length of red nylon rope. Because it was red. And Eskel liked red.

“Geralt, _focus,_ ” Jaskier tapped the top of his phone, weathering the glare he received with a small smile. “I think we should get the cuff links. And we don’t tell him how expensive they were.”

“Didn’t you learn anything from the shibari workshop saga?” Geralt shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans. “If he asks, we tell him. I doubt he’ll ask though. Too polite.”

“You said yourself... the gemstones were the colour of his eyes, _and_ it’s the right level of sentimental. Eskel level sentimental.” Jaskier slurped another mouthful of his latte and then lifted the cup to rattle the ice around in search of more honeycomb syrup. 

“Hmm. And they’ll do the engravings on site?”

“Yes.” 

“Fine,” Geralt finished his drink and turned the cup until it sat perfectly in the saucer, the handle parallel with the edge of the table; he smoothed a thumb through the few droplets of coffee on the white porcelain, and—

“Geralt. Going to talk to me about it?” Jaskier reached across and rested his palm over Geralt’s fidgeting fingers. “You’ve been more distracted than usual, and you only tend to throw yourself into an obsession when you’re trying to avoid something.” The wildlife documentaries helped him avoid acknowledging the end of his time in the military and undiagnosed depression; training Roach helped him avoid his diminishing eyesight and difficulties with his current therapist; obsessing over the ropes and its attached scene was helping him avoid _something..._

“My therapist is passing my case over to someone else.” Geralt didn’t look up.

Jaskier’s heart sank in his chest as he saw the glimmer of trepidation break through Geralt’s usually faultless facade. The therapist had failed to get through to Geralt in any meaningful way; he only attended because it was part of the treatment plan that allowed him access to all the medication he needed. Not that anyone would ever _force_ him, but they’d certainly send copious letters, and the GP would make him repeat the same fucking conversaiton everytime he went to renew his perscriptions. It was just easier to go once a week, recount a few battles and then go home again. If she got too close to something he didn’t want to talk about, he just shutdown. “What does the new therapy entail? Has anyone spoken to you about it?”

“Something called EMDR. She says it’ll be more effective because I won’t have to talk about it much. It’s controversial, founded by a Dr. Shapiro in 1989 when she was walking in the woods,” Geralt nudged the cup, tapped his phone in his pocket and then gripped the side of his leg to _stop_. 

“Hey, hey… it’s alright,” Jaskier took that big hand again. “Talk to me about it. You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Wrestle yourself under control. The fact that you _want_ to tell me is a good thing,” he smiled when those blue eyes finally flickered up from the edge of the table. “C’mon, let’s go get Eskel’s present and then we can go home and you can tell me a bit more about it.” 

They walked home to give Geralt the time he needed to _breathe_. The bus was always so crowded on a Saturday. Once Eskel’s present was wrapped—a pair of silver cufflinks with an amber gemstone, a ‘G’ on one and a ‘J’ on the other—and his card written, Jaskier flopped onto the sofa and pulled his brooding vet’ down with him. These days Geralt found it far easier to let Jaskier look after him in small ways; making him a cup of tea with his favourite biscuits—not hobnobs, heaven forbid anyone touch Eskel’s stash—stroking his hair and cradling him when he felt low. Geralt told him a bit more about the programme, where it would be, how long it would take, and Jaskier listened patiently, only speaking when Geralt began to sound stressed.

Eskel arrived home to the two of them curled up and snoozing, with Jaskier’s hand under Geralt’s shirt, palm resting over the left side of his chest and his face buried against his back. It was tempting to let them sleep through the restaurant reservation, but he walked into the kitchen and saw his present sitting on the counter and knew he couldn’t be that cruel. They could have ten more minutes while he freshened up.

Before he headed upstairs, he grabbed the letter Geralt had shown him that morning. Lambert’s kids were ‘round on Sunday, but this kind of thing couldn’t wait more than it already had. If he went late enough in the evening, then they might have already returned to Keira. After a little bit of discussion, it was decided Eskel would go on his own when Aiden was home. Fewer people to watch whatever reaction erupted out of Lambert’s heart; he was still proud like that. _Didn’t fucking deserve any of it._ Eskel folded the letter and tucked it beneath the kettle to be dealt with later.

The meal was nice. The cuff links made Eskel choke up. The sex blew his mind. All in, a pretty good fortieth birthday; shibari workshop included.

***

“The key is to not to overload,” Aiden murmured, eyes narrowed in concentration. “You don’t need much to make your eyes really _pop._ ” 

“Are you gonna’ make me look like you in the pictures?” Zoe whispered, clearly thinking that _volume_ might interrupt Aiden’s careful administering of the eyeliner. She’d been reviewing his folders of photographs while her dad and brother worked on the car in the garage; she was perfectly capable of joining in—Lambert treated both his children the same, which included making sure they knew the difference between every different type of wrench—but preferred spending time with Aiden and Virtute. 

“Far more stylish,” Aiden tilted his head as he pulled his head away, inspecting his work with a critical eye. He’d given her a very light outline - young eyes, after all - with some little wings. “You’ve got your daddy’s eyes. They don’t need much help.”

She giggled. “Daddy goes red when you tell him you love him.”

“Yes he does,” Aiden grinned and placed the pencil on the coffee table. Zoe sat on the sofa with Virtute sprawled across her lap. Lambert’s youngest suffered quite substantially from ‘cute aggression’ when she saw fluffy things, so it was safer for his poor beleaguered British Shorthair to remain near her at all times for the occasional squish; the loud, rumbling purr indicated she didn’t mind that much. “Now, with your skin, we don’t need foundation. When you do want some, make sure you ask the lady or the man at the store to help you colour match. We don’t want any vampires or tangerines.”

“Hmm, daddy said you were one glitterbomb away from being Edward Cullen when you were fourteen,” she frowned. “I don’t know what Edward Cullen is. He said it was something to do with a vampire.”

“Consider yourself blessed. Now, we can go with red, but I think a softer pink would be better. Thoughts?”

“Pink.” She beamed.

“As the lady wishes,” Aiden plucked the stick of lipstick out of the Boots carrier bag and carefully unwound it; he dabbed a coloured streak on his hand to show it to her before he tilted her head up. “Do this with your lips—yes, well done. Now hold. Perfectly still or I’ll get it on your teeth.” Zoe pursed her lips so that Aiden could apply a discreet amount of lipstick, and then pushed them together in imitation of what she’d seen Mum do on a number of occasions. “Perfect. Now, nails?”

“Yes.” She bounced and Virtute complained with a quiet ‘mrow’ before settling back down again. “ _Aiden_ ,” the prolonged ‘ _Aiii-den’_ Zoe employed when she thought she was about to ask something cheeky. “When you and daddy get married, are you gonna’ change his name? Like, I’m Zoe Murphy, will he be Lamb Taylor?”

 _Oh fuck, Lamb, how’d Aiden not used that one yet?_ He bit down briefly on the inside of his cheek, because there was a more serious question here. “Would that upset you? If you had a different name to daddy?”

She sighed. “Yeah, bit. Mason told me it might happen and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Huh,” Aiden sat back on his heels, nail polish in hand. “What if I took daddy’s name? Would that be better?”

“Would you be sad?”

“No, I wouldn’t be sad.” _The shareholders would be. His name came with a reputation attached._

She considered this, eyes squinting thoughtfully, as he took the first of her little hands. Her nails were so small they’d only need a single lick of paint on each one, perhaps another coat or two. The paint itself had a black base, but was filled with multi-coloured sparkles. “Maybe. Could you put them together? Macey at school has two last names. Smith-Granger. Her mummy and daddy split up and then her mummy got a new one.”

“A new one?” Aiden grinned. Zoe had the same frank way of speaking as Lambert. Just without the _‘fucks’_ thrown in. 

“Yeah, a new husband. Macey heard her mummy talking to another mummy. Apparently he ran out of energy. Do men have batteries?”

“No, men don’t have batteries,” Aiden was valiant in his self-discipline as he painted her left hand and then her right, but he was going to make Lambert _wheeze_ with laughter when he recounted this exchange. “We can be a bit lazy though.”

“Yeah, all the boys at school are lazy. Mummy says I might find nicer ones when I get to big school, but I really don’t have to rush.”

“She’s quite right. You’ve got all the time in the world to find the perfect one.”

“But mummy wasn’t daddy’s perfect one, and they had me and Mason,” she went to knead Virtute’s plush fur, but Aiden caught her hands before her nails could get covered in loose strands.

“Zoe, mummy _was_ daddy’s perfect one when they had you and Mason. As people get older, they change, and sometimes the person that was your perfect one isn’t there any more. But mummy has another perfect one now, doesn’t she?”

Zoe wrinkled her nose, leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “He’s not as nice as you.”

“You’ve said that to his face, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” she lifted her head proudly. “Mummy says you should never say not nice things behind people’s backs, so I said it when he was facing me.”

“Of course you did.”

“Aiden.”

“Yes, Zoe.”

“Thank you for doing my makeup,” she leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek; Virtute decided her chosen bed was far too wiggly today and walked lazily onto the next cushion over. “May I have a juice?”

“Of course, sweetie, let’s go and get a juice.” 

With Zoe sitting at the kitchen table with a carton of juice and the iPad—she enjoyed Candy Crush and Lambert permitted half an hour each day, which she was fastidious in using—Aiden returned to the living room to tidy the makeup away. They’d spent the morning in Cambridge; Mason needed new school shoes because, like any young man, he was beginning to grow faster than a weed during summer time, and so Aiden had taken Zoe into Boots. Keira wasn’t keen on her wearing it, so it’d have to be removed before she went home but… eh, let the kid experiment, right? 

_Yeah, Aiden was a bad influence._

As he packed the lipstick away into the carrier bag, a familiar car pulled up onto his drive. Not exactly a surprise; Eskel texted ahead to let him know both about his arrival time and the nature of the news he was bringing. They decided not to tell Lambert and give him the weekend with his kids to enjoy unburdened. Aiden watched as Lambert left the garage with his arms spread and hauled Eskel into an embrace, joined quickly by Mason who had a soft spot for Uncle Eskel and his rugby playing prowess.

By the time they entered the kitchen—Lambert’s arms and parts of Mason’s _face_ still covered in grease—Aiden had the kettle brewing and the pot of biscuits in the middle of the table. “Wash hands first.” He placed a hand on the top of Mason’s head and steered him towards the sink. “You too. Lead by example.” A click of the fingers for Lambert.

Eskel sat down opposite Zoe. “I love your lipstick.”

“Aiden put it on for me,” she grinned and helped herself to a cookie from the biscuit pot. “How you?”

“Good, thank you, finding school alright?”

“Yeah, just started French. Daddy said you’d help. So next week okay?”

Eskel chuckled. Zoe was _definitely_ Lambert’s daughter, and he cast a quick glance over to the man in question. “I’ll arrange a date. I need to talk to daddy about something, you and Mason good to go outside and play for a bit?”

She sighed. “I suppose. Mason! C’mon, I found a bird nest I want to show you.” She hopped down from the chair and, despite being the youngest of the two, grabbed her brother’s hand and hauled him through the door into the garden.

“Well, that sounded fucking ominous,” Lambert threw himself down in Zoe’s vacated chair and sipped the last of her juice—well, she was done with it—as Aiden prepared the tea. “How’s things? Geralt told me he let slip about your birthday.”

“It’s fine. I got off lightly with dinner,” Eskel smiled, but Lambert noticed the struggle. “I feel like I’m constantly bringing you bad news, but this letter came through for you the other day. Didn’t want to tell you about it over the phone.” He pushed it across the table. “Opened it by accident, wasn’t paying attention.”

“Ahh shit, I thought I’d changed all my addresses,” Lambert sat forward and pulled the letter out of the dishevelled envelope; Eskel tried not to watch his face as he read it. The change was instant when his eyes fell on the name of his father in the first few lines. Aiden placed the two mugs of tea carefully on the table and pulled up a chair to sit close to Lambert’s side; he didn’t push, or pry. Just waited. The paper crackled as Lambert folded it back down. “Well, yeah, he used to smoke these thick cigars so that makes sense.”

The reaction was too level. This was Lambert. He was fighting whatever response bubbled now in his chest, but like an active volcano, its eruption was inevitable. It started with the uncontrollable bounce of his right leg, a slurp of tea to cover the quiver of his lip; he tried to look away from Aiden as his eyes rimmed in red. It wasn’t his father’s illness that had cut him deep, it was the fact the old bastard had contacted him after twenty-two years. Couldn’t just die quietly, could he? Had to make it a fanfare and leave a crater in his wake. 

Aiden slipped a gentle hand around the back of Lambert’s neck and coaxed him to his chest. He heard the first quiet sniffle. “It’s alright, kitten. Just breathe through it. Take all the time you need.”

“I can’t—what the—I—,” Lambert stuttered, trying to verbalise the whirlwind of thoughts in his head but unable to pin any down. He heard the scrape of a chair and felt Eskel’s big hand settle on his back. Flanked by the two men that had, between them, held him up for the last five to six years, Lambert found a level of calm. He dropped his face into his hands, elbows propped on the table. “Fuck. Why now?”

“You don’t have to go,” Aiden stroked Lambert’s neck in slow, gentle circles along his hairline. “This isn’t a demand. It’s a request. We can write back, politely decline, or we can ignore the letter altogether.”

“Oh, he knows I’ll go,” Lambert growled, unfolding the letter to read it a second time. “He knows or he wouldn’t have bothered. One last opportunity to twist a knife in.”

“Then why go?” Eskel leaned back in his chair, head tilted to the side.

“Because I—,” Lambert grit his teeth. “I want to show him he didn’t win. Didn’t fuck everything up for me. I’ve got—I’ve got Aiden, and… my kids, brothers, and,” he felt a large, fluffy body rub along his legs, “and Virtute.” 

Aiden smiled and leaned down to scoop his tubby ball of love off the floor to deposit her in Lambert’s lap. “You’ve got nothing to prove to anyone, but if you think it could… provide some closure, then I’d like to come with you. I’d like to meet at least one of your parents before I marry you.”

“Fuck, no. Aiden, the guy’s a psychopath. He has the word ‘fuck’ tattooed over one set of knuckles and… I can’t even remember the other. I know that one ‘cause it’s the fist he used to punch with.” 

“Don’t rush into a decision,” Eskel murmured. “Don’t… set yourself back.” 

“Pfft,” Lambert fluttered a hand and Aiden could almost _see_ the careful construction of defensive walls that he’d have to carefully disassemble, brick by brick, once the kids had returned to their mum. “C’mon, Zoe and Mason only have a few more hours. Eskel, you need to show Mason a proper bind. His coach is an asshole.” 

“He’s a forward? Thought he’d be a back like you,” Eskel left the kitchen at Lambert’s heel. 

“Yeah. He’s started talking about a diet of rice and chicken, and then asked me what protein powder you use. I nipped that bullshit in the bud pretty quick.”

“Mm. Agreed. Not while he’s still growing—.”

They continued to chatter inanely as they headed out into the garden to join Zoe and Mason on the lawn. Aiden picked up the letter and scanned the text for himself. Lambert’s father wouldn’t have been allowed to contact him directly—the orders and protections established when Lambert was taken into care still offered him a degree of shielding—but as a dying wish? The prison would do it for him. 

Selfishly, Aiden saw it as an opportunity. This man—evil as he was—held the key to Lambert’s childhood. Perhaps there were photographs, relics, _anything._ Did Lambert have a stuffed toy he used to hold when he was a baby? Was there a blanket? What did his mother look like? Was he a baby with fuzzy hair? Small things. Perhaps others might see them as insignificant, but Aiden just… he wanted to know. Wanted Lambert to know. Not everything about his childhood was bleak, right? There had to be some things that—

Aiden sighed and folded the letter up. Time to make the kids a quick snack before they headed home.

***

_Jaskier got the job._

For the first few hours after receiving the email, he sat on the sofa in a trance and almost forgot the last of his exams that afternoon. But how could he write about humanitarian aid for two hours, when all he could think about was the fact that he was going to be a member of MI5 in a couple of months? There were some references to Mingst and Dunne in there, _maybe_. Not his best efforts, but the others would boost his grade.

It was a relief to arrive home. He couldn’t wait to tell Geralt and Eskel. To show them that he hadn’t let them down, that he’d achieved and made them proud. There was _nothing_ that could distract him from his high. Nope. No, sir. Well, except _that._

Geralt stood in the kitchen in his boxers with a coil of rope over his shoulder and a beer in his hand. “Welcome home,” said the sultry growl. Jaskier’s eyes dropped to the defined line of his cock barely contained within black cotton.

“Is—are you—?”

“Eskel told me it was your last exam today, so I convinced him that you deserved a reward.”

“A reward?” Jaskier squeaked. Fucking _squeaked._ Roach gave him the side-eye from the basket, clearly _so done_ with their shenanigans, and he shrugged his coat off. “Where’s Eskel?”

“Upstairs.” 

Jaskier eyed the rope on Geralt’s shoulder. “Is he—?” 

“Why don’t you come and find out?” Geralt finished his beer, chucked the bottle in the recycling and walked upstairs with all the urgency of a man on an evening stroll, whereas Jaskier stumbled after him as if he were running for a bus. 

The bedroom was dimly lit and warm. The lamps on the bedside tables were on and the ruffled duvet betrayed an earlier tryst, and Jaskier could still smell the rich musk of it beneath the clean cotton of fresh laundry and the diffuser in the corner. It was enough to stir his prick with interest, and then the sight in the middle of the room brought him to full mast.

“Holy fuck,” Jaskier breathed and began to circle. Eskel was bound to one of the solid dining chairs from downstairs. Geralt’s research had paid dividends. His aesthetic was perfect. Every line of rope, every knot, emphasised the strength contained within them. Eskel’s ankles were secured to the front legs, while his arms were bound behind his back. Ropes criss-crossed over his shoulders and down his chest in a secure harness that followed the lines of his pecs. Occasionally he flexed into them, but that wasn’t even the most delicious part. No. _That_ accolade went to his prick. Bound in a cock ring at the base, it throbbed, leaking precome from its huge head. Eskel was harder than Jaskier had ever seen him. The gag in his mouth prevented him from speaking and he watched Jaskier with those soulful, helpless hazel eyes. “Why—did he agree to that?”

“I said if he mentioned Keats or anything to do with his thesis once I’d gag him,” Geralt murmured from his perch on the bed. “He lasted five minutes.” Because Eskel was swamped in his work and needed a proper break; not thinking about it, talking about it. _Nothing._ Those were the rules.

Jaskier bit his lower lip and stood at Eskel’s side. He touched the grooves of his scars, stopping at the damp silk of the gag. “Does it hurt?” Eskel shook his head slowly—almost drunkenly—and tilted his cheek into Jaskier’s hand with a quiet whimper. “Do you know how beautiful you look?” Jaskier asked, not really expecting an answer, but Eskel’s cock flicked, his shoulders pressing into the lines of the rope. 

Then Geralt was pressed to Jaskier’s back, his lips teasing down his neck as he worked his belt and jeans loose. “Touch him.” The command was simple enough, but Jaskier’s mind could barely compute. There was so much he _wanted_ to touch, he didn’t know where to start. Geralt guided his hands for him, one of his big palms over the backs of Jaskier’s fingers, and ran them over the lines of Eskel’s chest. “Look how strong he is. All tied up, just for us.”

“Nngh,” Jaskier moaned as Geralt’s other hand slid inside his boxers and squeezed the hardened length of his cock. As his jeans slipped down his thighs, he could feel Geralt’s prick against the line of his ass—how long had he been hard? How long had they been waiting? 

“Hmm.”

“What are we—?” Jaskier dropped his hands away from Eskel long enough for his shirt to be stripped from him; Geralt sank to the floor to remove his boxers, and then Jaskier was standing naked before their bound bear, and yet _he_ was the one that felt vulnerable. 

“Stand here.” Geralt guided Jaskier forward, stroking down his arms and moving his hands to rest on the two broad shoulders wreathed in rope before them. “Don’t let go. Look into his eyes.” The authority in Geralt’s tone elicited a little shiver from both his lovers, and Jaskier smiled gently as Eskel’s pupils got a little wider.

The heat behind him vanished, but Jaskier dared not disobey the order he’d been given. He stroked his thumbs in gentle circles on Eskel’s collarbone and closed his legs a little to feel the firm muscles of Eskel’s thighs between them. He didn’t mark Geralt’s return until two slick fingers stroked gently over his hole. “Oh, fuck, Geralt."

“Stay still. Keep holding on.” Breathed near Jaskier’s ear as a finger slipped inside, thrusting slowly in and out until silky walls clutched needily. “Going to fuck you just like this, Jaskier. Standing over Eskel, he’s going to watch you come and he can’t touch you. Look at how much he wants you.” Another finger pressed inside and Jaskier gasped, hips canting; his cock leaked a bead of precome and Jaskier longed to watch it drip onto the head of Eskel’s prick below. Eskel moaned into his gag, arms tugging at the restraints as he tried to lean forward but was held fast.

“Can I kiss him?” Jaskier asked, voice catching as a third finger curled inside him.

“Just one. No touching anything else. Not yet.”

The kiss was wet and desperate rather than sensual, Jaskier nibbled and lapped the notches in Eskel’s upper lip, got a little carried away, and ended up with his lips pressed to the side of his neck. Geralt’s hand wrapped around his chest and drew him back with a quiet tut and three fingers pushed into the last knuckle; Jaskier keened. “Fuck, _Geralt_ —aahh. Please.”

“Going to behave?”

“Y—yes.” Jaskier gasped as Geralt’s hand pulled away, head dropping when the touch of fingertips against his rim was replaced by the blunt head of Geralt’s cock. “Oh, fuck, yes. Geralt. Fuck me. Fuck me, I want to cover his cock in my come.”

“Your mouth is filthy,” Geralt purred with pleasure and then thrust inside—slow, measured—allowing Jaskier to savour every inch as it stretched him wide. Lithe thighs shook over muscled ones and Eskel grunted, shoulders rolling as he pulled at his bindings again. Hazel eyes were on fire now, flickering up and down Jaskier’s taut body, watching his cock bounce with each of Geralt’s powerful thrusts. “Look at him, Jaskier. Let him see how—ahh—much you love it when I fuck you like this. How much you—mmm—love it when we share you.” 

Jaskier fought to keep his head up, his eyes open, but the relentless snap of Geralt’s hips, pounding his thick cock across his prostate, was blotching his vision and making every muscle weak. His fingers bit into Eskel’s shoulders, and Jaskier couldn’t help but drop his gaze to watch that barrelled chest flex into the ropes as Eskel struggled and growled. His own prick flicked and drooled, desperately hard and wanting. “Geralt, please, _please._ ” 

“Do you want to sit on his cock, Jaskier? Look at it now. Want to feel him split you open? Want to grind down on it until you come?” 

“Nnnfg. Don’t stop.” Jaskier was close already. The sight of Eskel restrained and desperate, his weeping cock and the perfect angle of Geralt’s hips enough to crest his pleasure ever higher. The hand on his hip dropped to his cock and slipped from root to tip in long, smooth glides until Jaskier was coming; a warm tide of pleasure that made him shake and gasp. His spend spattered over Eskel’s chest and stomach; Eskel tilted his head back with a low, yearning groan. Geralt withdrew slowly, prick still harder than iron, and then pulled Jaskier back to his chest for a gentle kiss.

“Well done. You okay?”

“More than okay,” Jaskier whispered, head tilting to Geralt’s shoulder as his gaze dropped to Eskel. “I want to see you come on his cock, Geralt. I know you want it. I—please.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, nose tucked to the side of Jaskier’s neck. “Promise to be gentle with me.” The teasing tone that had underpinned his voice thus far wavered, and Jaskier turned to cup his stubbled jaw in both hands.

“Just like the first time I kissed you all over,” he pressed a light kiss to thin lips. “How would you like to be opened up, captain?”

Geralt smirked and looked down. They were being watched _very_ attentively, honey-hued eyes wide and needy, and Geralt stroked the dark eyebrows above them until they flickered in pleasure. Without a word he detached himself from Jaskier and sank down to his knees at Eskel’s feet, the huge prick now at his eye level twitched, muscled thighs clenching. Geralt licked from root to head, the tip of his tongue followed the trajectory of a thick vein and ended in a gentle flick across the frenulum. He spread his knees wide either side of Eskel’s feet, hips tilted as Jaskier knelt down behind him with the bottle of lube in hand.

A soft hand cupped Geralt’s balls, massaging, and then slipped up his perineum in a languid tease. Jaskier started with just one fingertip, circling around Geralt’s rim until it fluttered and relaxed. He slid inside gently, lips pressed to the back of a broad shoulder as Geralt sucked and licked at Eskel’s cock in eager anticipation. Two fingers in and a slight curve found the spot made Geralt quake and moan against Eskel’s balls. “Jas—,” he mumbled, fingers tightening their grip on Eskel’s calves.

“Don’t worry, Care Bear,” Jaskier purred, pressing his fingers deeper as he looked up into the hungry eyes watching them. “He’s nearly ready for you.” Jaskier topped up the lube until his fingers were making the filthiest squelch as he moved them in and out of Geralt’s hole; his fingertips pressed gently outwards with each smooth movement until he was carefully spreading three fingers, easing Geralt’s body into accepting something close to Eskel’s girth. He withdrew and stepped back far enough for Geralt to rise and straddle Eskel’s lap; he slid his own impressive cock through the grooves of Eskel’s abdomen, the head pushing through damp chest hair. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt glanced over his shoulder with a slight shimmy of the hips, and Jaskier’s breath caught in his chest as he realised what he was being asked to do. A slick hand took Eskel’s cock at the base and lined the fat, red head of it up with the glistening pink bud of Geralt’s hole. The contrast was delicious and Jaskier bit his lower lip as he watched the very tip tease just inside Geralt’s rim.

“Slowly, Geralt. Take your time.”

Hands braced on Eskel’s shoulders, Geralt sank down slowly. Eskel growled and moaned through the gag, hips twitching as he restrained the urge to buck up into Geralt’s tight heat. “ _E—eskel_ ,” Geralt stuttered, his voice wrecked as each successive inch pressed inside; his body clenched greedily, feeling its way down hard length until Geralt was fully seated, breathless and shaking, in Eskel’s lap. 

This was his first time, Jaskier realised, and took the executive decision having watched each glorious moment as that thick cock took him, to remove Eskel’s gag. The first words that fell out of his mouth were so beautifully, predictably Eskel, “Geralt,” he growled, voice hoarse from the animalistic grunts and groans that had been his only means of communication for the last hour or so. “I love you.”

“Mm, love,” Geralt managed as he tried to find room for his lungs around Eskel’s fucking cock. Tentatively, he rolled his hips, a little shimmy across Eskel’s lap that surprised them both. Jaskier grinned at the gasped whimpers. With a tight grip on Eskel’s shoulders, Geralt moved again, this time he tried to find a consistent rhythm, his back arched at the constant rub across his prostate when he tilted forward and ground himself down. Strong core muscles rippled, the balls of his feet balanced on the floor as he began to ride his bear with enthusiasm.

Jaskier couldn’t help but wander. He wanted to see it from every angle; the misty, distant look in Geralt’s eye as he lost himself to the overwhelming pressure and burning pleasure of finally having the huge cock he’d admired for so long inside him; the enchanted expression on Eskel’s face as he watched Geralt unravel; the sight of Eskel thrusting into Geralt’s body as he rode it. It was that visage that possessed him to kneel down behind Geralt and tongue around the base of Eskel’s cock, eliciting a shocked gasp amongst the listless moans of awe. Jaskier slipped a hand between his lovers and grasped Geralt with his slick palm so that he thrust through it with each of his smooth gyrations. Geralt came with a startled _yelp_ ; the final stumbling thrust pushing him into a tidal wave of bliss. His arms tightened around Eskel’s shoulders as he kept going, his own cock spurting thick strips of seed across dark chest hair. Despite the patchy pace as Geralt struggled to maintain any kind of coordination, the spasm of his body finally teased Eskel over and he felt the eruption of pent up heat fill his ass. 

Slumped against Eskel’s chest, his own spent cock jammed between them, Geralt panted and shivered. Every slight adjustment allowed come to slip out from his stretched hole, dribbling down across Eskel’s balls, and Jaskier groaned in appreciation. “Christ on a bike…”

Geralt raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder, Eskel chuckled. “Not sure he’s entirely relevant currently.” Even to his own ears, Eskel knew he sounded drunk. Every part of him glowed with warmth; the contact between his skin and the ropes tingled and every other sense was filled with _Geralt._ His mussed white hair, his unfocused blue eyes, the musky scent of his climax and sweat mixed with expensive cologne. 

“I don’t know, because you two are gods, there’s definitely some kind of divinity at work here.” Jaskier fluttered his hand in their general direction, and then pulled himself to his feet. “Gunna’ untie you.” As he worked, Eskel and Geralt kissed. It was slow, wet and lazy, interspersed with quiet chuckles, grins and nuzzles. When Eskel’s legs and arms were free, he scooped Geralt between the rear and stood with him effortlessly to transfer him to the bed and finally ease his softening cock free.

A heaviness settled over Eskel, like his limbs had transformed into leaden weights, and he used his last remaining strength to half burrow under the duvet. He hadn’t even done any of the work, but he felt _loose_ and exhausted in the best way.

Eskel had felt elevated to another plane. The moment those ropes were wrapped about his body, cradling him, binding him, his every nerve-ending tingled. Geralt made love to him in the hour leading up to it; whispered adoration and praise in his ear, kissed him, worshipped every curve and angle until Eskel was a mess. After that, he’d melted easily into the chair, limbs moving obediently. 

In the dim, quiet comfort of his bedroom he rediscovered that blissful feeling of detachment—like he was floating outside his body and mind; everything muted, muffled, but for the brush of Geralt’s hands across his flushed skin and hardened nipples. The ring wrapped around his cock kept his erection solid as Geralt fluttered his fingertips over it, sitting in his lap in his boxers and promising him release when Jaskier got home. 

_But Eskel didn’t want it to end._

He wanted to stay in that chair forever, lulled by the gentle command in Geralt’s voice, teased by curious hands, watched by two sets of brilliant blue eyes. Watching Jaskier come undone above him was transcendent; a heady torture. He couldn’t touch. Couldn’t intervene. Only watch misty blue eyes as Geralt’s thick cock ploughed into that beautifully tight ass, listen to Jaskier gasp and plead, _feel_ as the come spattered over his body.

 _And then…_ with both of them at his feet, he watched Jaskier work Geralt open, watched his strong, infallible wolf begin to disintegrate as their songbird found his sweet spots and made him desperate. The clutch of his body when Eskel was finally sheathed inside him. The desire to touch, hold, grab was overwhelming. He knew he would take Geralt again later, he’d hold his wrists and work into him until he sobbed with ecstasy, but for now Eskel could only admire that beautifully muscled body move as it chased its pleasure.

The helpless look in Geralt’s eye when he came was one Eskel had never seen before; shock, awe, elation. _He wanted to see it a hundred times more._

Jaskier stroked Eskel’s hair as they laid in bed later—there had been tea, hobnobs, chocolate—gazing down the slope of his chest to the blissed expression on his lover’s face. “There were meant to be safe words and things,” he whispered.

“There were failsafes in place, don’t worry; I told him everything I was going to do. But you’re right. If we want to do it again, we’ll make sure the rules are clear. Was there anything you didn’t like?” Geralt sighed contentedly where he was spooned up against Eskel’s back; their lover was loose and spaced. He wasn’t talking, but the level cadence of his breathing and the way his hands kneaded at Jaskier’s body betrayed his happiness. 

“Oh ho ho, no. It was amazing—so, it—yeah,” Jaskier closed his eyes and draped his arm around the part of Geralt’s back he could reach. “My favourite part was watching you ride him. I don’t think I’ve ever—it was so—you—,” the words escaped him—well, _eloquent_ words escaped him, so he went with blunt, because he knew Geralt appreciated that anyway, “Geralt, I can’t wait to spread you open on this mattress and fuck you into it. Then I want to go two up with Eskel. Your ass was made to be stretched around a cock. Preferably two.”

Geralt chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that always reminded Jaskier of their happiest times. “All in good time, songbird.”

Jaskier decided he’d tell them about the job in the morning. It was just too _warm_ and _comfortable_ to talk.


	12. Family Is More Than Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, the following chapter is a bit gnarly and contains the following: discussion of alcohol abuse, discussion of drug overdose, _discussion of child abuse,_ discussion of domestic violence, a character in a lot of emotional pain and mentions of attempted child sex trafficking. None of it explicit, but it all appears.

They sat outside in the car park staring at the visitor’s entrance for some time. Aiden didn’t speak, although occasionally he glanced across at Lambert to try and read him. It was difficult, near impossible, and Aiden didn’t like it one bit. To him, his kitten was usually an open book; a slideshow of expression and emotion in every way. If his face wasn’t doing something, then his eyes were. Aiden checked his watch. “Ten minutes until the appointment.” He spoke softly.

“We should go in,” Lambert said, but didn’t move, not at first. It felt like his feet were buried in concrete, his entire body rendered immobile. His mind was conjuring all the memories he’d buried deep for years; a fearsome Goliath of a man with black hair and raging eyes that were always red when he remembered them. The word ‘fuck’ flashing before his eyes before it connected with his body, his face, his head. “Yeah, we should go in.”

Aiden knew better than to say the words ‘we don’t have to’. He’d said them enough before Lambert had answered the letter, and then again when they were waiting for the appointment to arrive. But not now, _not here;_ if Lambert turned back now he would forever see himself as a coward, even if that could not be further from the truth.

They walked through the automatic doors and Lambert approached the front desk. He tripped through his explanation, indicating Aiden when using the words ‘support’ and ‘counsel’. This was the low security wing. His father had been transferred from high security because the medical care was better here, but it didn’t matter because he was no threat to anyone in his current state. A uniformed guard appeared, summoned by a silent buzzer depressed by the receptionist, and they were led through double-barred gates.

Phones, car keys, wallets. All piled into a plastic tray. Aiden did it swiftly—practiced—but Lambert dropped his wallet from shaking hands twice before it reached its destination; his front door keys rattled and he stretched his arms out as the guard did a quick sweep across his torso and legs. No weapons. Aiden stepped in and pulled him close. One hand slipped around the back of his neck, squeezing gently, while Aiden tucked scrunched eyes against his chest. “You’re alright. Deep breaths.” 

“I feel like a fucking kid,” Lambert whispered, eyes opening into the soft cotton of Aiden’s shirt as he took a deep breath; cologne, fresh laundry, traces of the Costa coffee they’d grabbed on the way because Lambert had felt too sick to eat, _Aiden._

“You may feel that, but you’re not. He hasn’t got any power over you, not anymore,” Aiden pulled Lambert’s face away, thumbs smoothing across a creased brow and then down the sides of his cheeks. “I’ll be just outside. You can call me in whenever, or not at all.”

“Right,” Lambert nodded, swallowed, and turned towards the second set of gates. “Yeah…”

The corridors were an industrial mat-grey, scuffed by years of heavy boots and shuffling prisoners. Albert Murphy was currently staying in the medical wing. They walked through another set of double doors and stopped outside a lounge. The guard held up his hand. “Don’t touch him. Don’t take anything offered by him. If at any point you wish to leave, let the officer at the door know. Have you got any other questions?”

“No, all good.” Lambert stared at the door, with its misted, reinforced glass and bars across the front; the hand in his gave his fingers one final squeeze and then Aiden sat down in the plastic chair just to the left of the door. Now or never. Lambert took a deep breath, shoved down his fear, and stepped through into the lounge.

A television whirred quietly in the corner, surrounded by bedraggled armchairs. There was a pool table—not balanced properly—and a cupboard stacked with board games and books. Along one side were a collection of tables and chairs, and it was at one of these that Murphy Senior waited.

He—

—looked different to how Lambert remembered.

The giant demon in his head—the one that crushed the life from him with a hand around his throat, stabbed him with scissors and smashed plates across his head—was now a diminutive, shrunken old man. His black hair hadn’t receded much past what Lambert recalled, but was now grey—nearly white. His craggy face clean shaven, his broad shoulders slightly stooped; the plastic cord shoved into his nose attached to the bottle of oxygen and respiratory equipment at his side. By all intents and purposes, he was—could be—Lambert, but aged by another thirty years, if not more. His jaw and brow were wider, his eyes more deep set and blue; Lambert had inherited all of his softer features from his mother.

He walked over slowly, pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, his hands on the edge of the table. Albert sniffed, prevented from folding his arms properly by the handcuffs that secured his wrist. “Well, shit,” he growled, voice rough from the damage caused by the cancer and the several decades worth of smoking that had caused it. “My boy. After all these years.”

Lambert’s jaw clenched, his neck twitching. _Not your boy._ “Albert.”

“‘S’dad, ain’t it? Last time I checked.”

“No.”

“Huh,” Albert leaned forward now, squinting at Lambert’s face, drinking him in. “Someone finally try to teach you some manners?” He indicated the scars on the right side of Lambert’s face.

“Bomb, Afghanistan,” Lambert realised he was biting out the words, only capable of one or two at a time. His mind was crumbling; he was staring at the man that had nearly killed him as a child on three different occasions, and beaten him bloody more times than he could count. A man that had almost ruined his future completely.

“Afghanistan? You a squaddie, then?”

“Was, discharged,” he paused. “Mechanic now.”

That earned a growled chuckle. “Surprised they let you within ten foot of a car after all the ones you nicked.”

“Wouldn’t have had to if you fed me, bought me clothes, would I?” It stumbled out before he could stop it and Lambert grit his teeth; his fingers clenched on the edge of the table until they ached, and he pried them off. “Why? After all these years.”

“Why what?”

“Why send the letter? Why ask to see me? Why—? You—.” Lambert could hear his voice growing louder and he forced it back down. He wanted nothing more than to launch across the table. Touch him? Lambert wanted to throttle the fucking bastard. Beat him until there was nothing left but a red smear on the floor and then set the whole thing on fire. 

No response at first. Albert rattled the handcuff around his wrist and then considered the oxygen bottle. “About to die, ain’t I? Thought about all the shit I coulda’ done better, and… I coulda’ done better by you. Just wanted to see where you were, what kinda’ man you’d turned into.”

“Right,” Lambert drummed a hand on the table and stood. He should’ve known. This wasn’t about apologising, or closure, it was about seeing how much lasting damage he’d done; see how much the state had managed to repair to assuage his conscience. “We’re done. Have fun with Hitler.” 

“Don’t be a—,” Albert started, but cut off the derogative. “Look, sit. You don’t owe me anythin’, but maybe we can do a, uh, an exchange. You’ve got to have some questions, and I have some too—about you.” 

_You don’t owe him anything._

Aiden’s words. They echoed now inside Lambert’s head as he turned to leave, but _something_ made him sit back down. The gaping holes in the early part of his life had never bothered him before; he was very much a man that lived for the present. But as the wedding crept closer, as they continued to collect photographs and look at guest lists, Lambert was growing increasingly concerned by how very little he had to offer. With Keira, it hadn’t mattered; she did everything and he just had to _survive_ his tour of duty at the time and be there for the wedding day. This was different though. He wasn’t a soldier anymore, his life was about more than just surviving until he could get home and do some living; Aiden expected him there every day. He had to turn up, to put the effort in, to be an equal part of what they had.

_And yet he always felt like he was falling short._

No matter how many times Aiden told him otherwise. He had nothing to offer his beautiful, intelligent, eloquent, loving husband-to-be… not even a fucking _baby picture_ for their scrap book. A scrap book that Aiden had filed away into the ‘perhaps it’s something we can do for an anniversary’ pile. So, Lambert sat back down. “Alright. But if you’re an asshole, I’m leaving.”

“Hmm,” Albert smirked and leaned back, taking several deep breaths of oxygen through the tube in his nose. “Ever get married?”

“Yes, then divorced.”

“Still wearing a ring.” 

“Yeah.” He moved his right hand protectively across his left. Before the line of questioning could progress, Lambert cut in with his own. There was no guarantee that anything his father said would be the truth, but then what motivation did he have to lie? It was worth a shot. “Mum?”

“What about her?”

“What’s she—? Does she visit you?”

“Nah, boy. She’s dead. Overdose about five years after they took you away.” He said it so matter-of-factly that Lambert almost didn’t quite understand what he’d said. The conversation petered out and Albert watched his son process the news without a single glimmer of concern. Should have been Lambert’s cue to leave. Everything about this situation was horrendously _level_ for what it was. 

“Grandkids?” 

“No.” Lambert answered too quickly, and he knew he’d been sussed by the smug little glint in Albert’s eye.

“Now, now. If you’re expectin’ me to be honest, you’ve got to return the favour. How many?”

“Two.”

Lambert’s heart hammered. Zoe and Mason were hundreds of miles away, but he was having the same reaction as if Albert stood there with his hand around their throats. His palms began to sweat and he pushed them into the material of his jeans. The silence stretched and he realised it was his turn to ask a question, but he didn’t have one. The mere mention of his kids in the presence of his abuser had thrown him. “It—uh,” he glanced towards the door. _I’m just outside._ Could call him in. Fucking _bad_ idea. Aiden facing his raging homophobe of a father would not end well. But _thinking_ about him, knowing he was there, it was enough to bring Lambert’s heart into check. “When you were arrested, they bin all your shit?”

“Nah, it’s in a lock up. State pays for it,” he paused. “What’re their names? Grandkids.”

“Zoe and Mason.”

“What kinda’ fuckin’ name’s Mason? Is it a boy?” 

Lambert’s hackles rose. “Expecting another ‘bert?”

“Tradition’s important.” 

“Right,” Lambert rubbed his eyes. This would’ve almost been easier if his father had looked like the demon he remembered in his nightmares; black hair, towering, red eyes, huge fists, stinking of alcohol and cheap perfume that didn’t belong to his mum. But no, he had to look like a little old man and make this… _weird_. “The lock up. Got stuff from the old house? Like… pictures of me and mum.”

“Yeah. Nothing of value though.” Albert watched his words punch through his son as easily as his fists had over twenty years ago; he was so easy to read. Made it even easier to push all his buttons and get what he wanted. “If I can see my grandkids, I’ll give you the key. I’m sure your new missus would love to see what an ugly little runt you were.”

Lambert leaned across the table _very_ slowly, because if he moved any faster his fists would start acting on their own. He clenched them tightly and forced them down into the smooth, plastic surface. “I would sooner put a bullet in my head than let you within a hundred miles of my kids.”

“You know, you’re as stubborn as your fucking mother, she’d swear the sky was pink if I said it was blue.”

“Ahh, that’s alright, ‘cause then you’d beat the shit out of her until she agreed, right?”

“Two decades and you can’t move on from a bit of discipline. Stop being such a fuckin’ pussy.”

“Harsh discip—?” Lambert’s lungs seemed to give up as the fury burned out through his chest; he slammed his fists into the table and stood up. “Three times, you nearly killed me _. Three times._ The third time the scissors nearly punctured my lung. You made my life a misery, you were going to give me to one of your mobsters as a fucking toy, _I fucking heard you talking about it_ , you sick piece of shit. _I heard you._ And you expect me to let you even breathe the same _air_ as my kids? I hope you die slowly, I hope it rots through you, I hope you suffer as much as we did, you—.” He didn’t realise it, but Lambert was roaring. The guard stepped forward and Aiden appeared in the doorway.

“Don’t—give me a moment, he’s—if you corner him—just,” Aiden fumbled through the semblance of an explanation as he crossed the room. “Lambert, look at me.” His voice firm but well below the volume of the current conversation. It was still enough. His kitten bit off his next words and looked at him in surprise. “It’s alright. But you need to calm down a bit or they’ll start hauling you out.”

“It’s—we’re done here.”

“No, wait,” Albert raised his free hand, but he wasn’t looking at Lambert anymore. “You… you look bloody familiar.” 

“I have one of those faces. Come on, Lambert.” He slipped an arm carefully around Lambert’s waist; the slow, gentle movements one used with the distressed and vulnerable. The old man opposite squinted at the gesture and then their left hands, now briefly joined on Lambert’s waist.

“Oh fuck,” his lip twisted in a snarl. “Should’ve fucking known. No, I know where you’re from. Lawyer, fag, bet you have scars under that posh shirt, right?”

Aiden’s grip tightened on Lambert’s waist when he went to wind back up to anger again. He had a _fantastic_ poker face. It was one of the many perks of the job, but Lambert could see the facade crack before it was quickly papered over by one of those shit-eating smiles Aiden used with clients he _really_ didn’t like. The arm at his waist loosened and he turned back. “I think I’d remember a face such as yours.”

“Probably not. Your partner dealt with my case and all the others that went down with me about seven years ago, including some of the boss’ own family. You’re more into the financial and property side, right? Yeah, shame what happened to him after all the _good_ work he did. Lucky escape for you, weren’t it?”

The cold leached through to Aiden’s very bones. He stared down into blue eyes the shade and temperature of a glacier; a psychopath, a murderer. Eyes that had watched his son suffer—among many others—with complete indifference, and now sought to cajol him into a reaction. Aiden didn’t need to demand answers here nor rise to the very obvious—if thoroughly _chilling_ —bait. Smithy’s records were immaculate and all still at the office. If there was any link with Albert Murphy to be found it would be there in black and white. 

Aiden placed his hands on the table and leaned across. “I know you invited him here to review your legacy,” he murmured. “Dying people like to take stock of what they’re going to leave behind, and you realised you had no idea, so you thought you’d summon him here and evaluate the damage. Make sure you left something worthwhile. But he’s _not_ your legacy. Everything he is he built himself, _in spite_ of you. You’re going to die a broken, lonely old man, with no family, no friends, no one to mourn you. It’s the closest thing to justice this life can provide, so I can only hope there’s something on the other end to do the rest of the job.”

The ire quivered in his tone, teeth clenched to keep his voice otherwise level. Lambert stood, paralysed by what he’d just heard, but Aiden straightened up, slipped his arm around his waist and guided him out. He didn’t let go until it was time to climb into the car, and even then he wrapped a hand behind Lambert’s head and pulled him to his chest, because he could see the shivers of misery rattling across his shoulders. Lambert sobbed. Huge, stuttering gasps as the horror of what he’d just experienced clawed its way out of his chest. “How—how did he recognise you—what?” Because his father had just tried to sink teeth into this part of his life too, and everything he’d said—everything he mentioned—sounded strangely like a threat.

“My firm’s big, kitten,” Aiden whispered, eventually sliding his chair back, tugging Lambert over the console and into his lap. “We deal with everything, but we all have specialisms. I have to defer to some of my juniors’ expertise sometimes. No one’s an expert in _all_ law. It’d be impossible. We worked with the CPS on a lot of cases, Smithy mainly. I dipped my toe in if he needed guidance on the financial or business side of things.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Lambert turned his face into Aiden’s neck, arms and legs folded as close to his own chest as they’d go; Aiden held him, firm palms rubbing up and down his back, occasionally squeezing the back of his neck or his bicep. “How did he know about the crash?”

“It was in the newspapers, with a rather unflattering picture of my face alongside Smithy’s. Not exactly a state secret.”

“Right,” Lambert drew in a shivery sigh and closed his eye; his tears had soaked through Aiden’s shirt and his damp face stuck to the side of his neck, but he _really_ didn’t want to leave his lap. “He offered me a key to a lock up with his stuff in it. Said there were pictures, and… I—Aiden, he asked to see Mason and Zoe, but, I— _fuck,_ no fucking way.”

“Too right,” Aiden tightened his hold. “Not in a million years. Besides, if I want to see you as a baby, I’d just look at a picture of Mason or Zoe. They’re your mirror images.”

“Mmph, nah, they’re way prettier. Like their mum.” 

Aiden sighed and pulled Lambert away from his chest. His eyes were rimmed in red, his hair mussed, cheeks stained with tears. In a way, it was a victory; little over a year ago Lambert would have bottled it up, swallowed it down and allowed it to tear through his head and heart until he had to burn it away with a bottle. This wasn’t the _end_. Aiden had little doubt there would be fallout to come. But he’d be there for it, because Lambert was his world. 

Gentle fingers stroked across a damp beard, and then he took his lover’s chin, holding him still for a gentle kiss, tongue sweeping a request for permission across his lips before it was permitted in. When he drew away, he pulled their foreheads together and looked deep into some soulful brown eyes. Warm and comforting, like hot chocolate and marshmallows on a bitter winter’s day. “I love you.”

There was that flush. Right up his neck to the tips of his ears and Aiden grinned. Lambert huffed, “Oh, fuck off, like—it’s just hot in here, and I’ve been crying and shit, and—.” He sighed. "Fuck it, he's just an old man now, can't hurt anyone. His own body's killing him. Good-fucking-riddance."

“Mmhm.” Aiden let Lambert clamber back into the passenger seat and buckle in before he pulled out the prison car park. The visit had left a bad taste and a residual chill, but he’d curl up with his fiance on their sofa, with their cat, knowing that would be going on a short break with their kids soon, and it’d all fade into memory.

***

Going back to work was difficult. Lambert took a few days off and Aiden didn’t _want_ to leave him alone, but there was only so much he could do at—and so much paperwork he was allowed to bring—home. On one particularly late evening, he rang Lambert twice to check on him, and received a tart response. _Defensive._

When he was home, Lambert was quiet and withdrawn. Even the guitar remained on its stand in the living room, and some evenings Lambert just grabbed Virtute and sat staring into space. He didn’t want to talk about it, and Aiden didn’t want to push him to breaking point, not while the wound was still raw. 

There was always the worry that Lambert would revert to old coping mechanisms though.

Aiden stepped through the door on the Thursday before they were due to depart on their half term holiday to Cornwall—the kids enjoyed it so much last time, they wanted to go again—and found Lambert sitting at the dining table in the middle of the kitchen. A bottle of whiskey and a filled tumbler sat in front of him and Aiden’s heart leapt up into his throat. Rather than overreact, because he was only human and it was oh-so-very easy to fly off the handle, he placed his car keys down on the countertop and took up a seat opposite. Turned out, he didn’t need to ask.

“I haven’t drunk any,” Lambert murmured, staring down at the glass. “I bought it. Got it here. Poured it,” he tapped the rim of the glass, “and then I started thinking.”

 _Well, that’s a relief._ “About?” Aiden shrugged his blazer off and left it to slump across the back of the chair.

“We’ve been—me and the shrink—we’ve been discussing why I became a drunk, what it did for me, and why I’ve been able to stop recently,” he propped his elbows on the table and tucked his nose into the glass; it was cheap, acidic, not something he’d enjoy drinking. 

“And what were the outcomes?”

“I wasn’t addicted to the alcohol itself, I was addicted to the release. Of escaping reality. I didn’t have the—uh, the emotional tools to deal with anything, or not the right ones, I’d never learned them, or—he said something about neglect, and—,” Lambert rambled through the thoughts in his head, because had bought the fucking bottle with the _full intention_ of drowning himself in it. And then he’d stepped into _his_ home, with _his_ cat ‘mrowing’ for her evening meal, and pictures of _his_ kids on the walls—recent ones, with him and Aiden—and it’d shattered the pattern. The jarring realisation that he wasn’t slumping down into an alleyway with a bottle of cheap whiskey to numb the cold and the memories, but a warm home with other methods to help.

“Alright, it’s good to investigate the source of a problem. Once you know where it comes from, you can deal with it,” Aiden’s eyes flickered down to that glass; he wanted to snatch it from Lambert’s hands and throw the entire lot into the garden. “So, what’s different?”

“I, uh,” Lambert flushed. “He asked me what I did now when I had that feeling of—you know, when it’s too much, and I told him about, uh, the ropes. And I said I didn’t just do it when I was feeling shit, that it made me feel really good anyway, and—he, uh, he was actually quite interested and I gave him the business card of the shibari workshop and it kind of got a bit weird.” 

“Tell me what you need, Lambert.” Aiden moved now, reaching across the table to take Lambert’s hands in his. “You guide everything we do, you know that, so if there’s something—.”

“Aiden, I just need—I don’t fucking know, alright? I can’t stop thinking about what he said to you, and I keep having thoughts of what he’d do to my kids if he got near them, and I keep thinking about all the times I thought he was going to kill me—I just need it to stop for five fucking minutes, I—.”

“Alright, alright. May I make a suggestion, and then all you have to say is ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

“Mm,” a slight squeeze of the hand—not good enough—and he straightened up, clearing his throat, “yes.”

“Okay, good,” Aiden tilted his head. “In a moment I’m going to take you upstairs, I’ll bind you in a rig, probably a lenient hog tie, blindfold, and the gag, because you’ve just scared me quite a fucking bit.”

“I’m sorry, I—.”

“Ahh,” Aiden squeezed his hands again. “Not finished. Then I’m going to put your head on my chest and hold you while I watch Law and Order with some popcorn.”

Lambert smirked. “You hate Law and Order.”

“It’s growing on me,” Aiden circled his thumb across the back of Lambert’s hand. It was also about sixty minutes long with adverts; the perfect amount of time for Lambert to relax into a rig. “Is there anything you don’t like about what I’ve just said so far?”

“You gonna’ fuck me?”

“No,” Aiden tilted his head and watched Lambert’s shoulders drop a little. His self worth hinged a lot on whether Aiden found him attractive and/or acceptable in various forms, which was a travesty in itself. “You can earn it by being a good boy tonight, and tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, I’m working from home. I’ll require your services during the day, and not as a mechanic. I’ll give you more instructions tomorrow morning and ask you to give consent again.”

Lambert’s ears turned pink, and then he hummed. “Okay, yeah, I—that all sounds fine.”

“Alright, go upstairs. Completely naked, please. I’ll be a moment.”

Once Lambert padded out of the kitchen, Aiden snatched the bottle from the table and emptied the entire contents down the sink. A shaking hand rubbed down his face as he took several deep breaths; too close, _way_ too close. The glass shattered in the recycling and Virtute skittered out from her hiding place beneath a cabinet. “Oh, I’m sorry, sweet. Come here,” Aiden crouched down and tutted until she pranced over, her big belly swinging from side to side, and rubbed her face across his knuckles. “Good girl. Who’s a good girl? Virtute is. Let me get you a dreamie.” _Mrow._ He was forgiven.

By the time he reached the bedroom, the window was cracked, the few scented candles were lit and the small television on top of the cabinet was on the right channel. Lambert knelt in the middle of the bed, his hands on his thighs; he watched Aiden walk over to the wardrobe to strip his suit off, pull on fresh boxers and a t-shirt, before finally grabbing the coils of ropes he needed.

“Going to put a chest harness on you because I like the way it looks, hands behind your back,” Aiden uncoiled the first length of rope and pressed it against the top of Lambert’s chest. A bulldog harness. This one wasn’t meant to immobilise, but every time Lambert inhaled his chest would press into the bind. Several loops wrapped around the chest with a small ‘H’ arrangement to create two shoulder straps that tied off at the back. Aiden couldn’t help but grip Lambert’s pecs with both hands when he was finished, squeezing and pushing them up into the solid bulk of rope above. “Mm. Beautiful.” He took the back of the harness and lowered Lambert onto his front; he could’ve issued a command, but it was that moment of Lambert flopping into his control that he so loved. “Arms.”

Lambert’s breathing levelled, his eyes slid closed, and it was easy for Aiden to lose himself to the process as well. He folded a rope in half, wrapped it around Lambert’s wrists and threaded the ends through the loop to make a cuff; wrapped, knotted and then bound it tightly. “How do your hands feel?”

“Mm, good,” Lambert wiggled his fingers in a practiced gesture and gripped Aiden’s when they pressed into his palms.

“Good boy,” Aiden breathed, and then grabbed another rope to attend to Lambert’s ankles. Same process repeated, with multiple circuits around his legs and two solid knots in the middle. He tickled his feet and smirked at the warning growl he received. “Easy, kitten. No need.” A firmer thumb massaged down the centre of a sole and Lambert relaxed again for the final stage; joining wrists with ankles to form the hog tie. Aiden wasn’t as lenient as he first intended and made sure Lambert felt the restraint as he pulled it tight. “Lambert, traffic light it, please. Green is continue, yellow is something needs to change, red is everything.” He knew, of course, but sometimes the mind got a little… clumsy at this stage.

“Green,” Lambert practically _purred_ it; his hips shuffled a little, seeking friction in the softness of their bed sheets, but otherwise he was perfectly still. 

The silk blindfold and the gag were close to hand; he slid the bit between Lambert’s teeth before fastening it behind his head, and then gently wrapped his eyes after a brief stroke down his face. “Good boy, beautiful boy, I like it when you have something in your mouth,” Aiden whispered, and then climbed onto the bed. It took a little bit of maneuvering to get Lambert into position; spooned up close, his weight evenly spread, head on the side of Aiden’s chest. “Oh, forgot the fucking popcorn. Nevermind.” 

He watched Law and Order, vaguely following the plot, but his attention was mostly on Lambert. The way his body relaxed in the cradle of rope, the way his jaw worked around the bit of the gag and the quiet sighs of pleasure through it. Every part of him eased, body and mind. 

Aiden started by running his fingers through his scruffy mop of hair, not gelled back much anymore as it often was when they first met. From there, his attention was sporadic, occasional pets along his shoulders and down his back, but otherwise Aiden feigned interest in the show. Muscles rippled and flexed, skin flushed with blood, and Lambert pressed his head into Aiden’s chest in search of further attention. “Stop squirming, kitten, or I won’t touch you at all.” The response was instant and Aiden rewarded the obedience with a gentle caress down a taut bicep. It was impossible to _not_ get hard with something so perfect bound up next to him and Aiden stroked his free hand down the length of his cock, feeling it swell through the cotton of his boxers. 

_Save it. Tomorrow would be worth it._ So his fingers dropped away.

As the credits played, Aiden shifted slowly and began to undo each of the knots. Sore limbs flopped onto the bed as each successive rope slithered onto the floor and he took a moment to check wrists and ankles; there was a reddened line on one that needed treatment—minor, everything deserved attention—but otherwise all the marks would fade in an hour or so. “Kitten, you all good?”

“Mm,” Lambert rolled onto his side, arms lifting from the bed only far enough to drape across Aiden’s chest. “Love you.”

“Love you too. Dairy Milk or Kinder Bueno?”

“I ate all the Kinder Bueno,” Lambert mumbled, eyes lidded.

“How the f—? That was a family pack.”

“I _am_ your family. Pfft, how was I meant to know it was your bondage chocolate? Label it.” Lambert smirked, eyes glinting with mischief, before he rolled onto his back and splayed himself out across the bed. “Wrist.”

“I know, I’ve seen it. I’ll get the aloe.” Aiden left the bed to perform his usual ritual: drink, chocolate and—on this occasion—some cream for the small burn. Lambert presented his arm like royalty when his lover returned, and Aiden chuckled as he rubbed a gentle thumb across the mark and watched Lambert become more alert. “You’re so pampered.”

“I deserve it.” Lambert said around a mouthful of chocolate once he’d wrestled the wrapper open with his teeth. His eyes were brighter; in fact, his entire face had transformed and Aiden leaned up to kiss him. Lambert nipped his lower lip, before sliding down into the bed. “Gonna’ tell me what we’re doing tomorrow?”

“Well, I’m going to work,” Aiden placed the aloe on the bedside table and took a swig of his drink before burrowing under the duvet Lambert’s side. “And you’re going to keep my cock warm for me.”

“Do you need thicker pants or—?” Lambert squinted, and then his eyes blew wide, his porn-based experience suddenly paying dividends. “Wait—as in—with my ass?”

“I’d love that, but no, it’s not really practical while I’m working,” Aiden turned onto his side and Lambert scooped up behind him, arms folding around his waist, still leaning over with interest, so Aiden tugged gently on his lover’s lip. “I told you. I like it when you’ve got something in your mouth.”

“ _Hmm,_ ” Lambert hunkered down. That might have been a worrying noise to those not versed in Lambert-isms, but Aiden was fluent. This particular grumble was ‘I’m very interested, but I require time to process’. So Aiden pulled those muscular arms tight around him and dozed off pretty quickly.

***

When Aiden woke up early the next day, he left Lambert to snooze and booted up his PC to tackle the first emails—always from Ryan, his secretary. The first handful were all ‘FYIs’, the next required a short response and the final one was a scan. Someone had sent a hoax letter; it looked like something out of an old American gangster movie and Ryan was clearly amused, but did say he’d alerted security. Letters like this were nothing new. The firm upset people all the time. Still, points for effort; they’d cut out each individual letter from a different newspaper.

* * *

From: **R. Prebble**

Subject: Another Hoax Letter

To: **A. Taylor**

Dear Aiden,

I thought you might find this one amusing. I've alerted security to keep an eye for the individual responsible. I should imagine their tin foil hat will be easy to spot.

Kind regards,  
Ryan

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well done for getting to the end of that one.
> 
> As a reward, please view these lovely fanworks. Y'all so frickin' talented!
> 
> Student teacher Eskel, with Eskel and Lambert roped up beneath the cut on Tumblr (their expressions are just amazing, and Eskel with long hair is a new _thing_ for me now, so thank you Luna): [Luna-Tic-Bat](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/626503584002998272/student-teacher-eskel)
> 
> A beautiful bound Eskel. I also have it on good authority that the NSFW version is pretty neat too. [Benisalilbitch](https://rawrkinjd.tumblr.com/post/626633592730173440/benisalilbitch-a-very-nice-tied-up-eskel-just)


	13. Family Portrait [Art - SFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ciri finally gets all three of them together to take a photograph for her Insta’ (hey, she’s family-orientated, don’t @ her), but getting them all to look in the same direction proved impossible._
> 
> Artwork completed by [Reidreamer](https://reidreamer.tumblr.com/).


	14. Little Talks

Lambert stretched out beneath the duvet, mumbling an apology to Virtute as she was unsettled by a stray foot. He was off work now until they came back from Cornwall. The deal was he packed, tidied the house and took Virtute to the cattery while Aiden set up his ‘Out of Office’ email signature. Aiden, Zoe and Mason all had prescribed technology time they had to abide by; the threat was that any and all phones would end up at the bottom of the sea if they were used outside specified times. 

_Mrow._ “Hasn’t he fed you?” _Mrow._ “What a dick.” _Mroo-ow._ “I’m up…” Lambert rolled out of bed, expecting to find his jeans from last night, but discovered instead that they’d been tidied away while he slept. Rather than go through the effort of salvaging them, he headed downstairs with his feline escort in just his boxers. The sound of furiously tapping keys drifted down the hallway from the study as he headed into the kitchen to rustle up some scrambled eggs and avocado. Good fats, right?

He flicked through the news as he wolfed down a slice of toast and then went to deliver his offering. “Grub’s up.”

“Morning, kitten,” Aiden looked up from his monitor with that big beaming smile, taking the plate and coffee. “Avocado as well.”

“Consider it a thanks and an apology for—,” Lambert waved his hand vaguely, and then cleared his throat when Aiden raised an eyebrow. “You know, the whiskey and being needy and shit.”

“Hmm,” Aiden considered the food, head tilted. “Asking for help isn’t being needy. It’s self care.”

“Mm, yeah.”

“How’re you feeling this morning?” Plate and mug placed on the desk next to his mouse mat, Aiden pushed himself from the deep executive chair and gathered Lambert into his arms. Since missing the rapid spiral towards a bottle of whiskey, he didn’t _trust_ himself to be able to read his kitten as clearly as he originally thought.

Lambert tucked his nose into the side of Aiden’s neck and took a deep breath. The faint traces of expensive cologne, the stronger scents of shower gel and shampoo and the laundry detergent they shared; mixed together, with a hint of something Lambert could never pinpoint, it was the smell of home. Somewhere safe he could be honest, where he could examine the cracks in his mind rather than just paper over them and pretend they didn’t exist. He wanted it now. _Needed it._ “Like I want to just stand here like this all day,” he drew back. “But I know you’ve got shit to do, so I’ll go and start cleaning.”

“Hmm,” Aiden scratched gently through Lambert’s beard. “I think you can spare an hour. Do you remember what I said last night? About trying something out?” He watched deep brown eyes flicker as they recovered the memory from the otherside of his dreams.

“Oh, yeah,” Lambert’s eyes dropped to the front of Aiden’s slacks. “You want to do that now? While you’re—?”

“Very much so. Do you? I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Lambert smirked and hooked a finger in the front of Aiden’s belt. “Fair, what’re the—uh—the rules?” 

“The rules,” Aiden removed that stray hand, kissed Lambert’s knuckles and left to collect a throw pillow from the armchair sat by the inert fireplace. “You kneel under the desk, hands stay wherever they’re comfortable, but you don’t touch yourself or me once you’re in position. You’re going to hold my cock in your mouth, no sucking, no moving. Clear?”

“So you want head, but you… don’t want head,” Lambert squinted at the desk—the footwell was hollow, so he’d easily have space to kneel between Aiden’s legs without having to fold into a fucking pretzel—and then shrugged. “Alright, sounds easy enough. Not sure it’s gonna’—.” He snapped his mouth shut. _No nay-saying without trying it first. That_ rule was almost as old as their relationship. “When does it finish?”

“That’s up to you, kitten, come along,” Aiden fell back into his chair and pulled his breakfast in front of him, but he only had eyes for the computer screen now. Lambert shuffled over, but hesitated before he dropped to his knees. There was always that moment of resistance. The pride in him recoiled briefly at any form of surrender; his instinct was to fight, to build walls, be unbending and strong. Clenched fists, gritted teeth. But there was no need for that with Aiden; he offered an easy release. No judgement and no free fall. Just effortless supplication.

Lambert crawled beneath the desk and stuffed the pillow beneath his knees. What now? Did he - ? He stared at Aiden’s crotch, his mouth dry, but Aiden wasn’t paying _any_ attention to him. He didn’t like that. “Aiden?” 

“Chop, chop,” was the quiet reply, but Aiden leaned back in his chair to assist. Tentatively, Lambert opened the fly of Aiden’s jeans and the waistband of his boxers. He’d never seen a nicer dick; it was so soft, and thick. Lambert ran his nose along the shaft, following the line of a familiar vein, hot breath puffing on velvet skin. Aiden was so disciplined, but Lambert wasn’t. He was weak. “Ahh.” With a soft, needy moan, he lapped at the very tip, and it twitched enthusiastically before his lips. His own prick tented the front of his boxers, a dark spot spreading through thin cotton as he began to leak at the mere _taste_ and deep scent of Aiden.

“Now, now, kitten, don’t get carried away,” a strong hand slipped beneath his chin and guided him forwards. Aiden’s erection slipped past his lips to sit heavily on his tongue and his eyes rolled up imploringly. “Be a good boy. Do as I’ve said, and then you can have a reward.” Lambert huffed, but tilted his head comfortably onto one of Aiden’s thighs. His knees were spread, his ass sitting on his heels and he tried to ignore the well of tension in his groin, instead turning his attention to the cock buried deep in his mouth.

He focused on the weight, the texture, the way his tongue salivated around the familiar taste. Aiden didn’t stay hard the whole time; his arousal fluctuated, flesh becoming supple and then swelling again if Lambert had to adjust or swallow the build up in his mouth. The sound of cutlery as Aiden ate his breakfast, then the tap of the keyboard, accompanied by the slow, even pace of his breathing... Lambert allowed his head to empty of anything else but the information his senses provided. No worries, no plans, no stress. The moment Aiden’s fingers slipped through his hair, circling gently over his scalp, playing with soft, ruffled strands, Lambert shivered and sank further into hazy bliss. He didn’t realise he was moaning and whimpering until Aiden hushed him, a thumb smoothing over his eyebrow. “Quieten down. You’re getting overexcited, just relax.” Eyes sliding shut, Lambert nuzzled into Aiden’s thigh and hummed in acceptance.

It was perfect. Ideal. Until Aiden had to answer a zoom call, and the individual on the other end was so irritatingly obtuse that it disturbed the heady equilibrium. Without careful control, Lambert began to _misbehave;_ his tongue gave a little testing wiggle, but Aiden didn’t react. So then he suckled a little harder and Aiden’s cock immediately thickened as he tried to maintain some composure during the call. The fingers in Lambert’s hair tightened until the follicles burned, but he continued to work even as Aiden’s breathing hitched and his neck flushed. He could have pulled harder, could’ve shoved Lambert away, but his hips were actually rocking into it, because he was _definitely_ getting off on receiving head while speaking to - _oh, one of his shareholders._

Lambert could feel Aiden’s cock getting harder as his orgasm teased, and he finally ended the call with a tart dismissal. As soon as the screen went blank he flopped back with a low moan and Lambert relaxed his neck as Aiden began to pull his head down at a swift, brutal pace. He came with a low growl, holding Lambert’s face to his groin, and it flushed red with the effort of swallowing.

“You’re going to pay dearly for misbehaving,” Aiden shuffled his chair back and pulled Lambert back by the hair. His thumb brushed over his swollen lips, and then beneath watering eyes. “I promise you that, kitten.” He pulled Lambert up for a kiss, biting and sucking at his lips and tongue until they were both breathless. 

There was no release for Lambert. He spent the day doing chores and dropped Virtute off at the cattery as expected, and then he spent his evening on his hands and knees with Aiden’s feet on his back, with one of the larger remote butt plugs they owned slid firmly in place. Occasionally Aiden would set it off and watch as he fought the desire to squirm, precome leaking in long beads onto the floor below his hips. He got to come. Eventually. After two feature length movies and the news at midnight, it only took a few minutes of the plug and the friction of Aiden’s leg as Lambert was allowed to rut against it. 

He was highly strung and almost crying by the end, desperately seeking the praise that had been absent from the whole thing, but Aiden scooped him up and brought him gently back to planet Earth. “My good boy. All is forgiven. So beautiful.”

The gentle, soothing kisses that followed extended the high well into the next day. Not even driving for seven hours with two kids in the car could dampen Lambert’s mood.

***

“Eskel, you teach three hour seminars,” Jaskier said as gently as he could while his ashen-faced boyfriend stared at the blank laptop screen. “And, come to think of it, you’ve spoken for hours on end about the bloody thing to me. Just do that, but to the investigators.” It was his viva voce. The last hurdle to his doctorate, and Eskel was melting down with anxiety. He had about four weeks to prepare now that his thesis had been accepted. _Four weeks to define the last five years of his life._

“Yes,” Eskel said, his tongue thick in his mouth. He wasn’t even in the lecture theatre yet and he could already feel his heart hammering in his chest at just the mere _thought_ of it. Giving a lecture to a hundred undergraduates was entirely _different_ to giving a lengthy talk to legitimate experts in your field. “Oh fuck, I need a drink.” 

Because it wasn’t just the thought of speaking in front of his peers; it was the _knowledge_ that this was the cusp of change. Eskel didn’t know what would happen after. In fact, every time he sat down to do some planning, or have a think about the trajectory of the next decade, he welled up with anxiety and had to go for a run, open another bottle of whiskey or play Beethoven’s entire back catalogue on the piano. Eskel tried to bury it, because at the same time Geralt was suffering at the hands of his new therapist. There was no other word for it. He looked drained all the time; there were black circles under his eyes, his skin was pale and he was quick to pour himself a glass of wine or seven when he got in from work.

And Jaskier was about to start his final exams and -

“Eskel,” Jaskier grabbed the computer from Eskel’s lap and placed himself there instead; those big arms folded around him immediately, and he tilted his head back as Eskel nuzzled into the side of his neck. “There we go. Much better. C’mon, Bear. You’ve got this.”

“I’m sorry, I should be better, I -,” Eskel fell silent when a finger settled over his lips, one elegant eyebrow arched as those blue eyes squinted.

“You shouldn’t be anything. You’re you, as you are, and that’s okay,” Jaskier whispered as he stroked all the areas on Eskel’s face that soothed him; across his eyebrows, over his lips, gently up his scars and through his hair. His entire body relaxed; they sat in comfortable silence until Eskel’s breathing evened out and his heart slowed. 

“Thank you,” he whispered. 

“Mm, that’s what I’m here for,” Jaskier smiled. “Oh, and this.” A kiss placed gently on Eskel’s jaw. “And this.” Another on his cheek. “This.” One on his nose, and Eskel shoved him off his lap onto the couch only to climb over him and growl into his throat, leaving nipping kisses until Jaskier was wiggling beneath him, nails scratching lightly across his back. 

The front door opened and spaniel claws tapped on the granite tiles just as a set of keys clattered onto the lamp table. Eskel looked up into two tired blue eyes and a faint smile as Geralt wandered over to the couch. White hair fell over his face as he leaned down to place a kiss first on Eskel’s lips, and then Jaskier’s, curled up in a smile. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Well, you could join,” Eskel reached out to take Geralt’s hand as he turned towards the kitchen. Those rough fingers curled into his palm, but he noted the hesitance and let go.

“I was going to get an early night,” Geralt’s gaze dropped. “I’ve got to be at the farm by six o’clock tomorrow morning, so…” He trailed off as he headed into the kitchen to snag a bottle of water, and then paused by the fridge. Two sets of eyes were watching him - he could feel their weight on his back - and he realised the idiocy of it. In the therapist’s office, he fled into his mental construction of their arms every time the trauma became too much, and yet in his own home, with their real arms waiting, he ran in the opposite direction. 

Jaskier sat up, one hand still gently petting Eskel’s face. “Or we could watch the new Dr Dolittle? With RDJ. Eskel rented it for you on Prime.” 

“Hmm,” Geralt tilted his head, considered the winding stairs up the mezzanine but ended up settling on the couch against Eskel’s chest, with Jaskier sprawled over his lap. The calm settled over him like a weighted blanket, and he tilted his face into Eskel’s neck with a contented hum. The film didn’t hold his attention for very long, his mind slipping into a hazy half-doze for the majority. He pretended to be asleep later when Eskel mumbled about heading to bed; his entire body glowed with pleasure when he was scooped into Eskel’s arms and carried up the stairs with only a scant grunt of effort. 

***

The office was red. Red carpet. Reddish furniture. Geralt traced the line of the stitching on the back of the couch opposite as he waited for the appointment to begin. He sat ramrod straight, palms on top of his thighs, mind already elsewhere. Had to walk Roach. The horses at the farm needed their hooves trimmed. Jaskier was going out with Triss tonight. Yen said she needed to… _talk._ Ciri. 

The door opened and closed, but Geralt didn’t look up. 

The stitching on the couch was coming away on the far right. He clenched his teeth and dragged his eyes to the man that sat down in the armchair opposite. Favoured his right side, poor posture from slouching too much, potentially a sports injury.

“Good evening, Geralt, my name’s Damien,” the psychologist unfolded some notes and placed them down on the table between them. “How much do you know about the therapy we’re going to embark on today?”

“A fair amount,” Geralt murmured. He’d read approximately three hundred thousand words on the topic. Everything from academic articles to unedited answers on Quora. It was all a bunch of pseudoscience, he was certain, but at this point he just needed the medication to continue so that he could at least function as a moderately normal human being. As close as he could get, anyway. “Can we begin?”

“Of course. We need to set some things up before we begin to discuss your experiences,” Damien folded one leg over the other. Still favouring his right side. Perhaps a golfer? Geralt squinted, and then forced his eyes back to level their gaze. “The first thing we need to set up is a container inside your mind. Now, this container can be anything—a box, a vehicle—but you must be able to close it tightly.”

Geralt knew this part of the stage. You made the container. And then you made your safehouse. He hadn’t thought too closely about either part, and he looked away now as he considered it. There was one thing that would be secure enough to contain the memories in his head; the trunk at the bottom of his bed during the final phase of his military training. “I have it.”

“Can you describe it to me?”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, but Damien didn’t seem phased by his irritation. “It’s three foot wide, two foot deep. Green. Two hinges on the back, latch and a padlock on the front.”

“What material is it made from?”

“Metal. Painted.”

“Alright. I want you to really visualise it in your mind’s eye. Almost as if you could reach out and touch it. Think of every detail; every blemish, every feature.” 

_He had a scuff on his left shoe._ Geralt closed his eyes briefly to refocus his attention on what he’d been asked to do. He remembered what the box felt like; the cold metal under his hands and the coarse edge of the broken latch. His clothes were always neatly folded inside, with a few minor personal items stored on the left. The black rubber feet had long since broken off by the time he got there and when he moved it once, it left black scrape marks on the floor.

The next part was the safehouse. It didn’t _need_ to be a house. It could be anything. A place, a person. “Eskel.” Geralt blurted it out before he could bite it back and looked immediately embarrassed.

“Good,” Damien smiled; it wasn’t the condescending, pitiful smirk of someone who saw him as a broken thing. More of a reflex. The good doctor had deep crow’s feet around his eyes, lines on his forehead and around the corners of his lips; he smiled a lot. “Imagine him. Perhaps a scenario where you felt safest. Most comfortable.”

They were on the sofa at home. It was the winter after… _that summer._ The one where he’d almost lost Eskel to his own demons. The windows were frosted and the television was on quietly, but they were mostly dozing. Geralt could still smell the faint traces of Eskel’s cologne after a day in the office and, to his surprise, another warm body rested against his chest. _Jaskier._ Two blue eyes glanced up at him, complemented by a beaming smile, and then turned back to the film. He fell asleep in ten minutes. Eskel lasted a little longer. Geralt remembered feeling so… content. He stayed awake for as long as he could just to enjoy the press of them both lounging around him, holding him—Eskel nuzzled his hair and slid a hand under his shirt in his sleep, seeking warmth and scent—but he’d fallen asleep eventually. 

Jaskier and Eskel were his safehouse.

The session progressed quite quickly after that. They abandoned the light bar quite quickly when Geralt’s entire body bunched in discomfort as his eyes followed it. The handbuzzers were enough of a stimuli, and for a while they experimented with different tempos and intensities. Dual attention stimulation to initiate an orienting response. All easy enough. He had his box, his safehouse, the buzzers, and—

—then the session was over. Geralt blinked at the clock in confusion.

When Eskel asked him later how it went, Geralt could only assume it went well. He didn’t feel like his life had been particularly revolutionised, but he hadn’t expected much. It wasn’t until the next week and the defining of an anchor memory that Geralt felt the full impact. Like being punched in the face repeatedly by a martial arts instructor. The anchor memory. Keen to prove the inefficacy of the whole thing, Geralt offered up the one that sprang to mind immediately; Vesemir’s death. 

He wasn’t ready for the emotional gut punch, his hands tightening around the buzzers as he mentally crammed it into the fucking box. The sound of gunfire, the smell of burnt flesh, the screams of the dying, the sight of Eskel on the floor in the sand, the crackle of Lambert’s voice through his earpiece, the sight of the pistol, the—

Geralt fled to his safehouse and cowered there for the rest of the session, his shoulders bunched, his fists clenched. When Eskel picked him up, he felt physically wounded. The two bottles of red wine he drank that night barely touched the sides as he disappeared beneath a fleece blanket and tried to drown the taste of ash in the back of his mouth.

***

“Is it bad that I need a break?” Jaskier stared forlornly down into his drink. “I’m a shitty person, aren’t I?”

Triss reached across and grabbed his hands between hers. “No. You’re human,” she squeezed his fingers. “It sounds like they’re going through a rough patch, and it’s okay to find that difficult. It’s not your job, you’re not being paid. It’s - .”

“Yeah, yeah…” Jaskier drew one of his hands away and knocked back several mouthfuls; the vodka burned its way down into his chest. “I just feel like I’m doing more harm than good, you know? I mean, what if I’m making them repress it rather than talk about it? And sometimes I just fall asleep on the sofa, and I wake up and Eskel’s still working on his laptop, and…”

“Let me just stop you there,” Triss sat back. “You’re their boyfriend. Not their mum. They’re grown ass men. If Eskel needs to pull an all nighter to get his essay done, then he needs to pull an all nighter.” By the look in those tired blue eyes, she realised she was onto a loser with this one. “You need to cut yourself some slack.”

“I guess I’m just worried about what’ll happen in September when I start an actual job and they’re left on their own. What if they get worse while I’m not there?”

“So you’re going to live your whole life trying to protect them, are you?” Triss raised an eyebrow. “No career, no seeing the world. Do you think they want that for you? Do you think they’d be happy to know you were thinking of throwing everything away - ?”

“I never said I was going to throw everything away, I - ,” Jaskier rubbed his hands over his face. “You know, your bedside manner needs work.”

“If you wanted someone to pat you on the head and say there-there, you would’ve just called your mum.”

“Touche,” Jaskier smirked. “What I _really_ wanted was to come and get told to butch up and then get outrageously drunk.”

“Well, you’re going to have to settle for slightly tipsy, because I have my last lecture tomorrow before my exams start.”

Jaskier raised his glass with a rueful sigh. “Here’s to adulting.”

Three hours later Jaskier arrived home in a taxi only slightly tipsy. It was only seven o’clock in the evening. There were slightly raised voices coming from inside the flat; Geralt and someone he didn’t recognise. He _was not_ expecting to step through the front door and find a staggeringly beautiful woman sitting on the sofa. Long, raven black hair left to fall around her shoulders, and the two dark blue eyes that turned towards him reminded him of a stormy summer sky. “I’m… interrupting.” He said, dumbly, and glanced towards the kitchen to see Eskel standing there looking rather tense.

A short silence followed, broken eventually by Geralt, who stood up as she spoke. “Jaskier, this is Yen,” he murmured. “Ciri’s mother.” 

She smiled and rose elegantly from the sofa to offer her hand. “Nice to finally meet you. Ciri’s told me such lovely things.”

“Uh…” Jaskier took the offered hand. “It’s um, yeah, pleasure.” Beautiful people tended to render him an idiot on their first meeting. It’d happened with Eskel, then Geralt, and now it was happening with Geralt’s _ex-wife._ “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Yen sighed. “This conversation was going round in circles anyway. As they always seem to.” 

“They wouldn’t if you listened to a word I say,” Geralt shot back.

“I would if any of the words were worth listening to,” she reached to pick up her coat. “I was hoping for your support, but it seems I’m not going to have it.”

“Is Ciri okay?” Jaskier hung his own coat up behind the door, brow furrowed in concern.

“A teacher recommended Ciri for an assessment to diagnose her with ADHD,” Geralt growled. 

“Right,” Jaskier glanced at Eskel who gave a little flick of the chin. _Don’t push._

“My dearest ex-husband doesn’t believe in labels,” Yen said airily as she picked up her half drained cup of cold tea from the coffee table and returned it to the kitchen. She rested a palm on Eskel’s shoulder in farewell and headed towards the door. “Whether you like it or not, Geralt, Ciri needs help. If she keeps getting in trouble at school, she’ll be the one that misses out on all the opportunities on offer.”

“Then we change school,” Geralt replied.

“Yes, of course. We teach her to run from her problems rather than face them head on,” Yen opened her mouth to say something further, but apparently thought better of it. From the look on her face, Jaskier would hazard a guess that it had something to do with Geralt’s own penchant for avoidance. She wasn’t cruel enough to go through with it though. “I’ll ring you in the week for the appointment. I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you were there.” And with a click of heels and a tight smile flashed at Jaskier, Yen left the flat.

A heavy silence settled in her wake. Geralt planted his hands on his hips, back turned to both Eskel and Jaskier, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched. It was Eskel that broke the silence, moving from the kitchen. “Geralt, if it’s something that could help Ciri, I think - .”

“No,” Geralt turned abruptly, tone barking across the flat, finger brandished accusingly. Now that he was closer, Jaskier could see how exhausted he looked; _fuck, he’d had an appointment today._ “You don’t tell me how to raise my daughter.”

“Geralt!” Jaskier didn’t mean to raise his voice, but Eskel looked as if he’d just been physically struck, his eyes widening, his mouth falling open. _Wounded._ He wouldn’t retaliate. Not to Geralt. No, he’d blame himself for it. Geralt looked shocked at his own outburst, but the apology apparently lodged itself somewhere in his throat, because he clicked his fingers at Roach and snatched his coat. The front door slammed behind him.

“Eskel, he didn’t mean it, he - .”

“Yeah, I know,” Eskel swallowed thickly, rubbing the back of his wrist through his eye. “How was Triss?”

“She was fine. Had a good natter, you know, the usual,” Jaskier walked cautiously into the kitchen, as if approaching a frightened puppy, but Eskel pulled him into a hug and pressed a kiss into his hair. “He needs to apologise.”

“He will,” a sigh. “He’s… struggling.”

“That’s no excuse for taking it out on you.”

“No, but he also has a thing about people trying to quantify and assess his mind, and now -,” Eskel tugged Jaskier over to the sofa. “He had a difficult childhood. Has an irrational fear that Ciri will endure the same if doctors start prodding and poking around.” He flopped into the warm spot Yen had left behind and Jaskier happily settled into his usual space across his lap. “I’ve been thinking a bit about the shibari we did.”

“Oh?”

“Mm,” Eskel stroked Jaskier’s hair thoughtfully. “It feels good. While you’re - I’m - in it. Like the rest of the world isn’t on my back anymore, and my head just empties. Do you think it might have the same effect for Geralt?”

“Is it something he’s asked about?”

“No. But he needs… something. He hasn’t looked this bad since… _fuck,_ since he came back from Afghanistan after being in captivity.”

There was no denying that Geralt looked _worse_ since starting the new sessions. On the one hand, the fact that he was actually engaging in them was a huge positive - there was an eventual light at the end of the tunnel - but on the other, it was destroying his quality of life currently. He slept on the sofa most nights unless Eskel came and physically retrieved him, his appetite was gone, he had to take days off work because of fatigue and was worried about being penalised for it and now he was getting irrationally angry. It wasn’t the first time; a pot of coffee earned his ire three days ago and ended up smashed at the bottom of the bin, and he'd received a formal reprimand for intimidating a man that had tugged at a donkey's ear on the farm.

“We’ll talk to him about it tomorrow.”

***

Aiden stretched out in the hotel bed, phone held above his face, and snapped a photo. Three weeks since they’d got home from Cornwall and it already felt like they hadn’t been on holiday at all. The memories of Lambert in a wetsuit half on, the arms wrapped around his waist, tanned in the sun with a surfboard under his arm - _yes, yes, a thousand times, yes._ Aiden flicked briefly through the pictures while he waited for a reply. Mason and Lambert baywatching it down the beach and then flopping through the surf; Zoe bodyboarding on the small waves; a random video taken on a shaky GoPro that ended abruptly when a large wave threw Lambert into the sea; restaurants; sand castles; a few night time selfies on the balcony while the children were asleep.

The biggest victory of the whole thing? Aiden had finally sat Lambert down to talk about the wedding. They’d agreed to begin working together on it again, starting small; find a caterer, pick a cake, choose a colour scheme. The venue was still a sticking point, but they had time. All the time in the world.

Kitten  
  
  
  
Very nice.  
  
Do I get one in return?  
  
No. Your wank bank has enough photographs of my face and cock.  
  
Brat. Are you ok?  
  
Yeah. Just going to bed. Early shift tomorrow. You?  
  
Missing you. Can’t wait to be home. Did you have a look at the caterers again?  
  
Yeah, I did. Narrowed it down to three. I want to go and taste test. Get some sleep. You’ve got loads of meetings tomorrow. I saw your diary. Love you.  
Love you too. Sleep tight.  
  


Aiden slept poorly that night. Lambert’s absence, the facts of the case he was currently working on and wedding planning whirred around his mind in a typhoon of activity. He almost missed the white envelope propped on his breakfast tray when the waiter delivered it. A bowl of cereal and a cup of tea later, he finally plucked it from the table and broke open the seal.

* * *

* * *

He threw the letter down and stood abruptly. The dining room was crowded. What was he expecting to see? Someone in a long coat and a fedora glaring at him from the corner of the room? His heart in his throat, he yanked the phone from his pocket. Instead of calling the police, he rang Ryan. “Get me the phone number for G4S. I think I’ve got an admirer.”


	15. Come Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Trigger Warnings:_ panic attacks, suicidal ideation, dissociation, mentions of torture.
> 
> For support: [Beyond Zoning Out](https://royallifecenters.com/beyond-zoning-out-how-to-get-someone-out-of-a-dissociative-state/#:~:text=Focused%20sight%20techniques%20include%20asking,back%20to%20the%20present%20moment), [Mind UK](https://www.mind.org.uk/information-support/types-of-mental-health-problems/dissociation-and-dissociative-disorders/about-dissociation/).

The sky was overcast. Grey. The dark clouds above followed Geralt down the street like a physical manifestation of the storm inside his head. He got as far as the bridge over the river - around two miles out - and slumped on the bench overlooking the water. Roach hopped up on his left when he patted the thick wooden slats, and she immediately placed one big paw on his thigh. “It’s alright, I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. She whined in response.

Not to say he hadn’t _thought_ about it. In that emotionless way that one thought about buying a new pair of jeans. The pros, the cons. But unlike a pair of jeans, there would be repercussions for more than him. The thought of Ciri losing him a second time - this time, without hope that he’d one day walk through the door again - was too much for him to swallow. Eskel and Jaskier too. It would shatter them. Whether he liked it or not, he was an integral part of too many people’s lives to take an early exit.

“It hurts all the time, Roach,” he looked down at her doleful brown eyes as he petted her floppy ears. “And it’s like watching the world through fog. I hear people speak, but their words are meaningless, I can’t make sense of them. Sometimes I can’t even feel Eskel or Jaskier when they touch me, I - .” Another dogwalker ambled by. Her black Labrador sniffed in Roach’s direction, earning himself a swift wag of the tail, but his owner quickly pulled him away from the crazy man talking to his dog. 

“Maybe that’s me now,” Geralt whispered when they were alone again. “Maybe I belong in an asylum. Or… I thought about leaving. I’m just… making people unhappy. I never wanted to be this person, I just… I just wanted to come home and forget.” He felt the tears prickle in his eyes and clenched his teeth in frustration. His face dropped forward into his hands as his chest tightened. _No, no, not out here._ “Fuck.” He grated out, one fist clenching, knuckles smashing into the side of his head as if he could smack the panic out.

Roach barked as he stood and began to pace, air punching out of his lungs in tight pants that still didn’t seem to seize enough oxygen for his brain to function. His vision swam as he paced up and down in front of the bench. His curly spaniel barked and whined again, her head tilted to the side, and he crouched down in front of her. A wet, slobbery tongue lapped all over his face with enthusiasm, tail wagging furiously, before he buried his nose into her scruff and breathed deeply. With her familiar doggy smell, he could bring his mind back ‘round and think of Jaskier and Eskel.

_Find your safehouse._

The sofa. The blankets. They began to manifest in his mind’s eye. Eskel’s heartbeat beneath his ear, Jaskier’s bare chest with its rug of soft hair beneath his hands where he liked to curl up shirtless for a Sunday afternoon movie. Eskel’s fingers running through his hair, brushing the arch of his ear, occasionally replaced by a gentle, lazy kiss when he looked up from his book. 

_Put the panic in the chest. Put the memories in the chest._

His mind conjured the metallic click of a latch falling home, and then silence. His heart began to slow as he focused on those sensations. Jaskier’s soft hair, Eskel’s warmth. _Safe._

He let Roach go. Hadn’t been holding her too tightly anyway, and she was happy to sit there wagging her tail furiously while she was cuddled. Her scruff was damp with his tears, and he cleared his throat. “I need to apologise,” he croaked. “To Yen, to Eskel… I need to be better, Roach. They deserve better.”

They left the park bench, but didn’t head straight home. Geralt needed more time to clear his head; his hands were still shaking, his chest still tight, the lump in his throat still threatening tears and panic. To formulate a plan of attack. Identify, strategise and execute.

***

Geralt came home just after eleven o’clock. If Roach didn’t need her evening meal, Eskel didn’t doubt that he would’ve stayed out longer; she trotted straight over to her full food bowl, spaniel ears flapping, and set about devouring every scrap of kibble and cooked chicken available. Reluctantly, Jaskier had agreed to go to bed, although Eskel was certain he was probably still awake, staring at the ceiling and waiting to hear the front door open. 

The door clicked shut softly and Eskel spotted a Tesco bag clutched in one of Geralt’s hands when he stood up from the sofa. “I was worried.” Eskel spoke first, and those two intense blue eyes lifted reluctantly from the floor. When Geralt struggled to look at _him_ , he knew there was something wrong.

“I had to go to the shop.”

“The nearest Tesco is six miles away.”

“Mm,” Geralt headed over warily, which made Eskel’s heart ache. He sat down in his usual spot by the right arm of the sofa and started to unpack his offerings; a packet of hobnobs, two large beers, a copy of the Guardian with the ‘quiptic’ crossword and a bottle of Elderflower cordial. Jaskier and Eskel’s favourite tidbits. Geralt placed each on the coffee table and then folded the bag carefully in his lap. Once that was done, his hands hovered, as if somehow the jigsaw pieces hadn’t fallen in the right order. Eskel watched his jaw twitch and then he shifted to stand. Tactical retreat.

“No, sit,” Eskel rested a palm on his shoulder and shoved him back into the sofa. “Talk to me. You’ve been avoiding me for the last week, and then when you finally say a word it’s to chew me out for showing concern.” 

“I - ,” Geralt opened his mouth, but the words scattered. He’d rehearsed it all the way here. Several fellow dog walkers looked at him with concern when he walked by them muttering about ‘should know better’ and ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you’; there was a fine line between a very apologetic boyfriend and prospective serial killer in the eyes of an outside observer. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t… that was wrong of me, I…” His hands were shaking. He gripped his thighs, nails biting through the denim of his jeans, and then suddenly Eskel’s palms were sliding over the top.

“It’s alright,” Eskel said gently. “Geralt, look at me, _please._ It’s alright.” He’d never forced it. Never had to. Geralt found eye contact difficult with most people. _Most people._ Never him though. But he realised why he was trying to avoid it when those two blue eyes finally lifted from the edge of the coffee table. They were watery - _crowded_ with tears - and Geralt immediately tried to pull back. “No, come on. Don’t hide.”

“I always said I wouldn’t - didn’t want to be this man, and - ,” he cleared his throat, lifting his hand away to wipe the back through his eyes with an irritable sniff; Eskel leaned to the side and grabbed a few tissues off the lamp table at Geralt’s elbow and pushed them into his hand. 

“What man?”

“The - ,” Geralt’s fingers clenched to his palms, his shoulders bunched, and Eskel finally closed the rest of the distance to pull him into an embrace. The ear that pressed to his chest would be able to _feel_ the heartbeat within, the slow rise and fall setting the pace of their breathing. Big palms stroked down Geralt’s back, giving him time to order his thoughts into something he would allow to pass his lips. It was so difficult just to _talk._ Geralt marvelled at those that could just open their mouths and let it all tumble out; it was one of the reasons he admired Jaskier. Irritation at their verbose young partner had very quickly turned into awe. It wasn’t just endless background noise. Jaskier’s words always held meaning and depth. He didn’t _do_ idle chatter. He did observation, reflection and laughter.

Geralt didn’t. He _couldn’t._ Everything he planned to say in his head always fell out in the _wrong_ order, or it wasn’t what people wanted to hear, or somehow it was the _wrong_ thing to say. It was best to just stay silent. A tactic he’d internalised and made his mantra for many years, but now people wanted him to talk? Wanted him to - ? He couldn’t. He didn’t have the skillset, and look at what harm he was doing just by existing. “Eskel, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Come here,” Eskel pulled Geralt into his lap. Somehow his love felt small in his arms, those broad shoulders hunched in a combination of shame and misery, head tilted down to Eskel’s shoulder as tears slid slowly down his cheeks. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Geralt. Nothing. What happened to us, it… it leaves wounds that you can’t see on the outside, and they can take years to heal. You’ve only just started after letting the injuries fester for five years. Cut yourself some slack.” 

Geralt, predictably, didn’t know what to say. His fists bunched in Eskel’s shirt and he turned his face into his neck, damp eyes closed as the tears finally abated. His breathing evened out and… 

_He woke up with a start._

Eskel’s arms tightened around him, reassurance that he was safe, and their fluffy spaniel in dire need of a groom whined as she flopped onto her side. The television was on quietly in the background and Geralt’s limbs felt stiff. “Sorry, I - .”

“- fell asleep in my arms,” Eskel murmured, his smile audible in his tone. “Not something I’ll ever get bored of.”

“What time is it?”

“Four in the morning.”

“Oh, fuck, I’ve got to be at work in an hour and a half,” Geralt growled and tried to roll off Eskel’s lap, only to be held in place.

“You’re having a day off,” Eskel tightened his grip. “With me, I’ll call in. The professor can do without me for a day; I’ll just say I’m working on my thesis.”

“Eskel, I - ,” Geralt started to protest, but he took one look into those tired hazel eyes that had stayed open all night watching over him, and fell silent. The administration at the farm had been understanding of Geralt’s… difficulties. The formal warning for the donkey incident had to happen because of a customer complaint, but he couldn’t shake the fear of losing his job there. Besides Jaskier, Eskel and Ciri, it felt like one of his few anchors to the world. He was no use to them like this. “Fine, you’re right. I’ll… call in.”

“Thank you,” Eskel murmured, and rested his forehead against Geralt’s as he looked into those lost blue eyes. All those years together, and he’d never seen Geralt like _this._ Torn open, vulnerable and helpless. If someone had told him this would be the price of therapy, the cowardly part of him would’ve bent to Geralt’s wish to avoid it. Eskel tried to ignore the weight of the guilt that threatened to settle on his shoulders. This was the _right_ thing. Geralt couldn’t drift through life half a man, with the rest still somewhere in the darkest recesses of the middle east. _He deserved better._ “I’ll make us some drinks, then we need to go to bed.”

Geralt called the day manager who, predictably, was understanding. The only questions asked were about the early morning feeds for the youngsters that had been rejected by their mothers and a cheery ‘get well soon’ before the line went dead. He stared at the handset once he’d placed it down on the coffee table. Before he could trip down yet another hole of self doubt and chastisement, Eskel scooped him up in his arms. Geralt grunted. It was all very well when he could _pretend_ to be asleep, but now Eskel was carrying him like a bride and - 

Eskel smirked. “You’re cute when you scowl like that.”

“I - ,” Geralt squirmed, but Eskel’s hold was firm, so he slumped. “I’m not _cute._ ”

“Agree to disagree.” 

Jaskier squeaked in his sleep when two heavy bodies flopped down beside him - Geralt mouthed “ _that’s_ cute” as if to validate his earlier point - and they both settled beneath the duvet to catch a few more hours.

***

One day off turned into a couple. Geralt called Yen to apologise for his behaviour. She was right - as she always tended to be when it concerned their daughter - and he agreed to attend the appointment at Ciri’s side. She deserved to have both her parents there to hold her hand, and the added reassurance that they both believed this to be the appropriate course of action. Label or no label, it would give her some clarity moving forward. And if there was one thing Geralt wished he’d had at her age, it was some acknowledgement that he wasn’t a freak of nature.

Eskel had to return to work, and Jaskier was at home revising for his final exams. It was difficult to focus when all he wanted to do was hold Geralt. He was quiet - not his usual easy quiet that Jaskier had grown used to - but a weighted silence that meant he was lost in a dark place inside his head. A dark place that no one could reach him. After a few hours of revision on the Friday, Jaskier finally threw his books to the side and shifted across the sofa. “Hey.”

Geralt looked up from the iPad in his lap. He’d been staring at the same page on the Kindle app for the last forty minutes; Jaskier hadn’t seen him turn the page at all. “Are you alright?”

“A little bored. There’s only so much political theory I can take in one sitting,” Jaskier smiled. “What’re you reading?”

“Uh,” Geralt looked back at the tablet. _What was he reading?_ The story was some vague, distant memory in the back of his head; hidden behind the flashing of gunfire and the drip, _drip_ of a leaking pipe somewhere in a prison cell. “A Brief History of Time.”

“Stephen Hawking, right?”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed as he locked the screen and cast it aside. “I’ll have to read it again… at some other point.”

The pause drew on and Jaskier scooped up Geralt’s hand, fingers kneading gently into his palm. Those sorrowful blue eyes lifted from the middle distance and watched him work; Geralt’s brow relaxed, his shoulders slumping slightly, and Jaskier was reminded of his conversation with Eskel. “You’re struggling to hold it all in, aren’t you?”

Geralt looked up with a start, but said nothing.

“You don’t have to, you know? You can talk to us about it, you can scream, you can - just do what you need to do,” Jaskier’s thumbs worked up to Geralt’s wrist, circling gently over the flutter of his pulse. “You can let go, Geralt. None of this is your fault, and you’re not forcing us to stay. We want to be with you, we want to help. Tell me how you feel, truthfully. You don’t have to hide behind a false veneer of… normality.” _Or whatever you perceive to be normal._ Because staring at a book _wasn’t_ , not eating, losing yourself in a slew of nightmarish daydreams; none of it was healthy.

Jaskier watched Geralt’s expression carefully. He was usually all micro-expressions - his default setting was stern neutral - but his eyes gave away so much if you knew how to read them. They were processing what was being said - what was being offered - and were now struggling to accept it as genuine. When Geralt spoke, the words crackled in his throat. “I just feel tired,” he whispered softly. “I wish there was an off switch. Just for an hour.”

“Perhaps there could be,” Jaskier cupped his hands around Geralt’s palm, resting it gently in his lap. “Remember what Eskel said about the shibari? How at peace he is when he’s tied up? We could try it. It might have the same effect for you.”

Another long pause. Geralt’s fingers finally animated, shifting to curl around the edge of Jaskier’s hand. Eskel did look at peace whenever they tied him up. Every muscle relaxed, his eyes glossy, his smile drunk. And then for hours afterwards he was soft and pliant, like he’d had a full body massage and half a bottle of whiskey. The thought of being bound - of being restrained - made Geralt’s chest tighten, but hadn’t those been the same misgivings Eskel’d had before their first lesson? Hadn’t he worried about being unable to get out? About rope burn? And then he’d loved it. Geralt remembered the feeling of holding him close, of practically _feeling_ the hum of pleasure in the heat of his skin. “Yes,” Geralt nodded. “We should try it.” 

“What - now - ?” Jaskier blinked.

“Yes,” Geralt grunted, and stood. “Can you spare an hour from revision?”

“For you, I’d skip the exam,” Jaskier chirped and hopped from the sofa cushion. He should’ve realised Geralt would want to test the hypothesis immediately; he’d only be thinking about it for the rest of the day if they didn’t. They walked up the winding stairs onto the mezzanine and headed into the bedroom. Jaskier smiled as he gazed at the bed with its folded hospital corners, perfectly arranged pillows and fastidiously clear nightstands. The novelty of living with two veterans would never wear off. “What would you like to try?”

Geralt pulled his t-shirt over his head as he considered the closed doors of the wardrobe. “Perhaps a hog tie, you’re quite confident with that,” he replied as he unbuckled his belt. Boxers could stay for now. This was about the rope, not the sex. If all went well, they could progress later. This needed to be a carefully controlled study. He opened the wardrobe doors and grabbed several carefully wrapped coils of rope, before returning to the bed. 

“Hey, slow down for a moment,” Jaskier reached out and cupped Geralt’s jaw. “Are you sure? You’re not just doing this because I’ve asked?”

“Certain,” Geralt didn’t miss a beat, and then his eyes softened as he saw the concern ashine in Jaskier’s gaze. He tilted his chin and pressed a kiss into the centre of one of those soft palms. “Are _you_ sure?” 

“Of course, we’ve practiced this one a lot,” Jaskier beamed. It was one of Eskel’s favourites; he liked it when Geralt grabbed the ropes and hauled him around, liked it when he was pulled onto his knees and forced to lean back while Jaskier’s hands ran over his chest and down his thighs. Perhaps Geralt would enjoy the same. There was no way on God's green Earth that Jaskier would be able to lift him, but some gentle petting around the lines of the ropes? Perfectly doable. “On the bed then, I’ll just take my belt and watch off. We’ll use Eskel’s safeword? Byron.”

“Mmhm.” 

Jaskier would be lying if he said that Geralt kneeling on the bed with his hands already behind his back wasn’t one of the _hottest things to ever happen since the dawn of time._ The perfect curves of his ass, the swell of his balls between thick, parted thighs. They both wore such _delightfully_ fitted underwear. How Jaskier just wanted to kiss, and bite, and suck - _oh yes, the rope._ He cleared his throat and adjusted his jeans as he climbed onto the bed.

_Right, so fold the rope in half. Wrap the wrists with the rope to form a band, leaving the centre loop hanging. Cross the end with the center loop over the other free hanging ropes. Wrap the line with the centre loop around the wristband, cinching the band together between the wrists -_

Jaskier paused every now and then and glanced up from his work. Geralt’s shoulders remained squared, but his head had started to bow. Perhaps that was a good sign? He didn’t want to disrupt the slow, gentle descent and so continued. He’d check in at the end of this knot; Geralt had his safeword. The room was a comfortable temperature, Jaskier’s touch gentle; he leaned forward occasionally to place a kiss upon Geralt’s back or pet his neck.

_Wrap a few times to take up the slack, check the wrists can still move a little. With the loop and the other free ropes, make an overhand knot. Good quick release knot, no dark spots, circulation is a-okay._

He tugged the free ends of the rope up Geralt’s back a little higher, and then leaned forward to wrap the doubled rope around the upper arms and rib cage. From here, it was a matter of making a strong harness around the curves of Geralt’s torso, and then moving on to make a crotch harness. For a good hog tie, for Geralt to feel truly cradled, all this intricate work needed to happen before they could - 

“Geralt?” Jaskier leaned forward and _listened._ His lover’s breathing was _very_ shallow. There was a stutter in his chest, and when Jaskier touched the back of neck, the crease of his bicep against his body, there was a sickly claminess to it. “Geralt, can you - can you give me a colour - ?”

_Nothing._

Jaskier abandoned the second coil of rope and crawled around the bed until he could kneel at Geralt’s front. His head was bowed, with a curtain of white hair obscuring his face. “Geralt, speak to me.”

 _Nothing._ That same, shuddery breathing.

“Geralt,” Jaskier cupped his jaw and tilted his head up. What he saw there struck him cold. Geralt’s eyes were glassy, but _not_ in the same soft, glossy way that Eskel’s were. _They were haunted._ They were looking into _nothing._ Like Jaskier wasn’t even there. His mouth was slack, and the shaking was becoming more pronounced. This wasn’t - this wasn’t how it was meant to go - “Geralt, I’m getting you out of it.” He scrambled back to the knots and tore at them with shaking fingers. “Geralt, it’s okay, Geralt - please speak to me - I - I’ve got you. It’s okay.” Repeating his name like a mantra, trying to bring him back, but the silence was _deafening._ The ropes finally fell away, leaving behind a few reddened marks but nothing of significance. Geralt’s arms fell limply at his sides, but he didn’t move, _didn’t react._

Jaskier felt the panic rise in his chest. Was this - ? What was this? He moved again, took Geralt’s face in his hands and kissed him - his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, his lips - looking for a reaction. “Geralt, _please._ Tell me - tell me what’s wrong - .” His voice trembled, he could feel tears streaming from his own eyes as he searched for a spark of life in the two empty blue hues before him. 

Couldn’t do this himself. He’d - done something wrong here. He’d - this wasn’t - _Eskel. He needed Eskel._

Jaskier left the bed and snatched up the handset for the landline that sat on one of the nightstands. He typed in Eskel’s number three times incorrectly, each time the panic welled in his chest. When he finally heard that familiar rumble on the other end. _“Hello?”_

“Eskel, it’s - it’s Geralt. Something’s wrong. He’s not - he’s not reacting - we did a little bit of rope work, just a little bit - and - it’s like he’s gone - and - I need - I’m sorry,” Jaskier blurted out, returning to the bed to Geralt’s side again. Terror gripped him by the throat; his heart hammered in his ears. The shaking was unmissable now, the sweat beading on Geralt’s forehead, his breathing barely perceptible. 

_“Jaskier,”_ Eskel barked, snapping Jaskier’s mind to attention. _“Deep breaths. Listen to me. Call an ambulance. I’ll be home in twenty minutes."_

_Ambulance. Fuck, yes. Of course. Fucking - idiot._ Jaskier hung up and then managed to splutter through a semi-coherent explanation to the call centre when he reached it. From that point everything was a blur. Jaskier clung onto Geralt, speaking to him, kissing him, until a pounding fist on the front door dragged him away. _The paramedics._ He answered their questions as best he could - Geralt’s current mental health problems, his deterioration - and didn’t hesitate when they sent him to the fridge-freezer for some ice cubes and Geralt’s favourite snack. Everything was on autopilot.

He blinked as the first - a young woman, with blonde hair and serious, brown eyes - cracked the ice out of the plastic tray and forced the cubes into the palms of Geralt’s hands. They used his name on repeat; hands shielded in latex gloves pressing against his arms, checking his pulse, keeping his fingers closed around the ice cubes. They were asking him to describe what it felt like, and Jaskier could _see_ the awareness creep back into Geralt’s face.

The front door clicked and Eskel’s heavy footfalls heralded his arrival. Jaskier could see the panic in his face and felt his heart plummet when he realised _he’d_ caused that. “What - ?”

The second paramedic - short bloke, black hair and a carefully schooled, relaxed demeanour - looked up. “Based on your partner’s information about Geralt’s medical history, we think he may have entered a dissociative state. No need for the blues, we’re just going to bring him back and then we’ll sit with you for a while. Come, hold his hand for us, we need to get him to focus on things here and now. The ice has worked some magic.”

The cubes were melting through Geralt’s fingers, which were now moving, his expression flickering. Eskel sat down at his side and rested one of those big hands on his thigh as the first paramedic asked Geralt questions - _what can you see right now? What can you hear, Geralt?_

Geralt looked at her in confusion as if only just noticing her for the first time. He opened his hands and turned them up, eyeing the tiny shards of ice swimming in two pools of water in his palms. “Cold,” he murmured; the word sounded odd in his mouth. “Jaskier?” His eyes slid left, then right to find Eskel, and his shoulders relaxed. “Who - ?” The world around him seemed grey and lifeless; he felt like he was observing himself from the outside. His emotions - his mind and being - were a science experiment on a cold surface. The cold snapped him back to the present, and now he was feeling his way out of the fog.

“Hello, Geralt. My name’s Andy, this is Jess,” the second paramedic said gently. “Jaskier called us because you gave him a bit of a fright, but everything’s alright. Can you eat some chocolate for me?”

Geralt squinted at _Andy_. Chocolate? _Hm._ Yes. He liked chocolate. He nodded, and then looked at Eskel who opened the wrapper for him. They asked him to describe the taste, and as his tongue licked around his mouth, he murmured, deadpan. “Like chocolate.”

When the paramedics looked both confused and concerned, Eskel couldn’t help but smile in relief. “No, that’s… that’s standard.”

Jaskier, who’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, quietly shaking, bit his lower lip. He reached out, and then retracted his hands - well, tried to. Geralt latched onto his palm before he could escape and held it tightly. His skin was cold from the ice and his grip a little on the firm side, but Jaskier didn’t care; the relief washed over him in a wave that made him dizzy. “Geralt, I’m so, _so_ sorry, I didn’t - this - .”

“For later,” Jess cut in. “Geralt, we’re going to do a few more exercises, then we’ll leave you in peace.”

Eskel left briefly to grab Geralt’s dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door, and they sat together on the bed, describing the various parts of the room - the lamp, Eskel’s desk, the nineteenth century artwork on the walls, Jaskier’s colourful shirt - until Geralt was stable, and coherent. The paramedics left an hour or so later, with a promise that a colleague would be calling the landline to check in a couple of times that evening, and then tomorrow morning too.

When the front door closed behind them, Eskel turned to look at the couch where Jaskier had curled up in Geralt's arms and passed out. The whole ordeal had been terrifying. He was completely drained. 

After visiting the kitchen briefly, Eskel joined them with three mugs of sweet tea. He placed them carefully on the low coffee table, and then looked across into the lidded blue eyes that watched him; Geralt's head rested on the arm of the couch, Jaskier’s face tucked into his chest. “What happened, Geralt? Can you talk about it?”

Geralt glanced away, one hand dropping from the sofa cushion to bury in Roach’s fur. “I went back.”

“Back where?”

“To Helmand,” he murmured. “It’s my own fault. I should’ve known.”

“Nothing’s your fault - none of this - no more than it’s Jaskier’s fault, or my fault, you can’t - .”

“They used to tie me upside down on the remains of a Red Cross stretcher.”

Eskel froze. Geralt had never spoken about it. _Never._ Not once in the five years since it’d happened. _They_ could only be one group of people. He didn’t speak. Didn’t make a single sound or movement for fear of driving Geralt back into denial.

“Then they put my head in a sink, and let it slowly fill up while asking me questions,” Geralt's eyes flickered, and he squeezed Jaskier a little tighter. “When the level of the water got past my nose, they’d let me drown for a bit. Sometimes until I was unconscious, and then revive me. Other times, they’d drench me in water, then use a car battery… old one, mostly dead… and…” He trailed off, hand lifting free of Roach to dip below his dressing gown to one of the many oddly shaped scars on his torso. “When I couldn’t move, when the ropes bit, I just… I remembered how helpless I felt. It was more real back there than… here.” 

Eskel slipped from the sofa and sat down on the floor by Geralt’s head. Roach stood, and then flopped over his lap, and Geralt’s fingers buried in his hair as they kissed. Slow, searching… Geralt melted, squeezed the soft locks in his grip and nipped gently at Eskel’s lower lip. After being untethered from the world, watching yourself from above as if your _self_ existed only as an abstract concept, a kiss from your lover was transcendent. Like sipping fresh water in a parched desert, wrapping a fleece around your shoulders in the dead of winter… like feeling their touch for the first time after a year in hell.

Geralt cried. 

Jaskier stirred and looked up in concern, but Eskel smiled gently, and they held Geralt together.

His road to recovery was pathed with demons that tore at him and everyone he loved, but they would walk it at his side no matter how strenuous the journey. Just _having them there_ was all the motivation Geralt needed to keep putting one foot in front of the other.


	16. Bring the Rain

Aiden’s admirer was keen. He didn’t seem put off by the presence of G4S in the slightest. In fact, they clearly saw the presence of Aiden’s suited, earpieced escorts as a challenge, going above and beyond to prove to Aiden that nothing made him untouchable. The previous few weeks had been truly taxing on a whole new level. The letters became more threatening; explanations of stabbings, describing how Aiden liked his coffee and that he should really be careful with those baristas and asking how his client dinner went mid-week. 

When his stalker somehow managed to break into the company car park, avoid all the cameras and scrape the word ‘fag’ into the side of his BMW, Aiden knew he had to tell Lambert. Even if it wasn’t _that_ serious - the death threats just posturing - his soon-to-be husband deserved to know. The sight of the BMW broke Lambert’s heart. Aiden was damn sure he was about to cry; no amount of t-cut or polish was going to buff that out. The repair was going to cost thousands.

“And how long has this been going on?” Lambert stood in the garage, his fingers still buried in his short hair as he stared at the white lines of defamation. It had gone through every layer of paint, right down to the metal. 

“Since before we went to Cornwall,” Aiden murmured, lifting both hands when Lambert rounded on him, mouth already open to chastise him for his omission. “In my defence, the company gets death threats all the time. I didn’t think this one was all that serious.”

“You get death threats _all the time_?” Lambert’s eyes widened, and then he grabbed Aiden by the wrist to haul him inside. “Show me. Show me right now. I want to see them.”

“Kitten…”

“ _Don’t_ kitten me,” Lambert growled. “Study? Laptop? Where?”

Aiden sighed. “Study.” They marched up the stairs together, and Aiden pulled up the emails while he dug out the physical copies he’d received; the most recent was the threat to his car, which he’d brushed off only to then have it _actually happen_. He placed the letters on the desk and looked up; he didn’t expect the abject look of horror that had drained Lambert’s face of all colour. “Lambert?”

“Aiden, these - ,” Lambert picked up the first. He stared at the magazine lettering, running his finger over the glossy texture of the paper, before placing them down with a sigh. “Whoever’s doing this is from the old crowd in London. East End mobsters, still doing things the old-fashioned way.”

“What? I don’t - ,” he glanced at the emails, and then down at the letters. “How do you know?”

“The rest of the kids in my year learned to read with Spot the Dog and Pip. I learned to read and spell by cutting the letters out of magazines and making threatening notes,” Lambert rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, I learned how to swear real good by the time I was seven. Teachers thought I was just playing too many of those new-fangled video games.” 

It was a lot to take in. Aiden rested a palm over the top of Lambert’s hand. “You think your father has something to do with this?” 

“I _know_ he does,” Lambert growled. “No one uses this fucking method anymore. Not when you can ping your IP address through twenty-five different countries when you send an email, or DDOS someone from your armchair. This takes a special kind of fuckery.” A pause as Lambert read the threats. Whoever his father’s colleague was knew they went on holiday, knew where Aiden worked, where he parked his car, the timings of his routine. This was more serious than Aiden realised. “I want your company to hire me as private security.”

“What?”

“I’ll quit the garage, I don’t need to serve notice, I can start on Monday.”

“Lambert, that’s… _nepotism._ I can’t - look, I’ve got G4S, they’re doing an _upstanding_ job of making my life both safe and claustrophobic.”

“Yeah,” Lambert huffed, derisive. “The same company behind the Hillsborough disaster. Sure. Aiden, hire me. It’s your company. You know I can do a better job - you know - .”

“I _know_ that you love working at that bloody garage,” Aiden waved a dismissive hand. “I also _know_ I want you nowhere near a gun, or danger, or stress, or _anything_ that is remotely like what you used to do.”

“That’s not your call to make,” Lambert’s shoulders bunched, his eyes dropping to those letters. He knew what happened to the recipients. The execution was ritual, brisk and the family were lucky if they ever found the body.

“Oh, it is,” Aiden folded his arms. “You think I’d put the thing I love the most in the world between myself and a - a bullet? Shall I put Mason and Zoe on the other side, hm? How about Jaskier, or Eskel? Perhaps my mother? I’m not in the habit of using my loved ones as _shields._ ”

“Five seconds ago it was no big deal, now we’re on bullets, what else have they threatened?”

The argument was short, but heated from that point. Lambert clenched his fists, and gritted his teeth, but Aiden wouldn’t budge. It ended with Lambert storming out of the study and then slamming around the kitchen to prepare dinner. The chilli they had that night nearly burned Aiden’s tonsils out of his throat, and he tried not to take it too personally when his attempts at affection were rebuffed with a quiet growl and a turned shoulder. _Lambert just needed time to sulk._ He didn’t like being told _no._ Never had. But this was for the best.

Aiden had some of the best trained security in the UK watching his every move. There was little more he could do. His family were safe. It took the edge off the suffocating reality of having someone—sometimes _two_ someones—dog his every move. They checked the kitchens of the restaurants he ate in, checked the cars he used to move around the city, forbade him from using public transport, checked over every inch of his flat before he was even allowed to shrug off his jacket. The moment he left London and crossed into Cambridgeshire it was like the hand around his throat had been loosened; fresh air, comfort, _home._

One evening he had to work late in the office. His bodyguards swapped their shift, and he headed down into the company archives. Nowadays, everything was done virtually. Even contracts, with a few exceptions, could be signed electronically. Not a single tree had to die for the sale of a house. But Smithy had been a bit old fashioned. Aiden’s senior by about ten years, he’d always insisted that one day society would go in full circle; the People—he always said it with such emphasis that Aiden capitalised it in his head—would lose faith in technology and want to return to the old days of ink, paper and fax machines. Pointing out that a fax machine _counted_ as technology would only get you a quiet scowl around his unlit cigar.

The vaults of the archive were cold. No point heating paper. And Aiden pulled his blazer tightly around his chest as he typed in his access code. The door clicked and he shouldered his way inside. Smithy’s Archive. He hadn’t been down here for years. Not since—well, he wasn’t here to reminisce about old times. The filing system was antiquated, but efficient. Aiden found the notes on Smithy’s prosecutions on behalf of the state against the far wall, and pulled out the first of many brown envelopes.

“Sir,” called a deep voice. “You should let us check every new room you—.”

“Derek, isn’t it?” Aiden didn’t look up from the low steel table he’d scattered his notes on.

“Yes.”

“If my admirer can break into this archive and then lay in wait on the off chance I decide to do some research on ancient history, then he deserves to have a stab, don’t you think?”

Derek—neatly combed brown hair, dark, potentially blue, eyes, Aiden hadn’t really looked—grunted and stepped back out into the corridor. He didn’t mean to be obtuse, but they were beginning to sniff his drinks and insist he brought packed lunches from home rather than grab sushi from down the road, and the suffocating control of it was choking Aiden’s sense of humour.

The files were ordered by date, so Aiden turned back seven years. Big cases that involved mobsters could take years to construct, and then longer to execute properly, especially when one was having to work through the rusty, unhelpful mechanisms of the state. He smiled as the first few papers slipped free; Smithy’s handwriting had reduced many a stressed intern to tears, Aiden almost included. It was mostly indecipherable scrawl with a few key words capitalised for clarity. After many years of translating for the uninitiated, Aiden was fluent.

It took him half an hour to find Albert Murphy. He was one of a long list of names indicted for organised crime; money laundering, human trafficking, drugs and arms. There wasn’t a single high stakes criminal activity this lot _weren’t_ neck deep in. The case was fairly straight forward; the police had actually done their jobs effectively. Made a change.

Then he found the first note. 

Coloured magazine letters, roughly cut out and stuck to plain, white paper with budget adhesive. ‘Throw the case, or else’. _Throw the case?_ Did these imbeciles not understand how—? The next letter congratulated Smithy on his new car. The third hoped he’d enjoyed his date—Aiden vaguely recalled a young blonde thing that Smithy’d been dating in the months before he’d died. There were others. All in the same vein. They communicated one message: we’re close and we’re watching.

Smithy had dated and timed each letter, perhaps expecting to use it to build a case at a later date. Aiden placed each one back carefully, and then picked up the final one. His heart skipped a beat.

_Drive safe._

He checked the date three—four—five times, and his entire torso felt like it’d been engulfed in flames. His hand clamped to his right side, and he drew in steadying breaths through his nose. It was dated—they’d—it was—

“Sir,” Derek was back. Aiden looked up at him from the floor. He’d fallen against the filing cabinets and slipped down until he was sitting at the base. “Sir, are you alright?”

“Wh—what?” Aiden frowned, and brushed away the hand offered down to him. He didn’t need _help._ Not for this, not—. “Fine, I’m fine. Just… too many hours, not enough sleep.” He tried to ignore the tremor in his hands as he slid the note away. The file stayed tucked under his arm as he left the archive and headed out of the office to his flat. Derek checked every inch of it before bidding him good night; he’d camp out in the car outside and then swap out for a fresh pair of eyes in the morning.

Aiden didn’t sleep. He spent the night staring at Smithy’s letters. Letters Aiden hadn’t known existed. Letters that looked _identical_ to the ones he was currently receiving.

Letters that had ended in Smithy’s death—no, his _murder._

***

“Oh, oh, oh, o-o-oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, o-o-o-oh,” Lambert listened to Shakira through one headphone as he beat his knuckles against the body of the guitar across his lap, and then set his fingers for the first cord. “I messed up tonight, I lost another fight, I still mess up, but I just start again, I keep falling down - ahh, fuck, wrong chord.” He rubbed a hand over his face, and slumped back in the patio chair. It was a warm summer’s afternoon, and rather than focus on _everything else_ that was happening, he’d decided to learn the theme song for Zoe’s latest film craze: Zootropolis.

She wanted to be the fox, because _of course she did._ Although, she wouldn’t mind being the fat cheetah because he got lots of donuts. _Mmhm._ So, there was currently a stuffed fox and a stuffed cheetah waiting in the spare bedroom for her next visit.

“This one fighting you?” Aiden stepped out the patio door with a glass of mango ice tea in each hand, a magazine tucked under his arm, and fell into the chair at Lambert’s side. They were back to hugs on the sofa and kisses. Lambert wasn’t happy, and asked every evening Aiden came back to see the latest notes. He asked about the security arrangements around the office, it—well, if it made him feel better, then Aiden could weather it. It was better than the cold shoulder; better than Lambert sleeping on the couch. There was nothing worse than feeling alone. _Isolated._

“Yeah,” Lambert tugged the earbud out and left it to fall onto the table.

“Hmm. It sounds good - what you have so far,” Aiden smoothed the magazine over his lap; Lambert glanced at it and then huffed a sigh through his nose. Wedding magazine. "Don’t give me that. You know we need to choose the colour scheme, get the fittings booked, or we’re never doing this by next summer.”

“Alright,” Lambert sighed, fluttering a hand. Aiden was right, of course; they didn’t do Care Bear’s size off the hanger and the venues would be booking up quickly. He plucked idly at the strings as he gazed out across the garden; Virtute was hunting something small and fluttery around the fig tree in the middle of the lawn. “You said you liked the blue?”

“Actually, I’ve changed my mind… I saw an absolutely adorable dress for Zoe in buttercup yellow, with a little bow; I thought Ciri would look lovely in a more grown up version, and - what?” Aiden looked up into the amused smirk beaming at him from across the table. It would be mocking, if not for the glitter of affection in deep brown eyes and quirked eyebrow.

“Nothin’, you’re cute, go on,” Lambert grabbed a glass of tea as he watched Aiden talk animatedly, pointing at various outfits he’d circled, and then snatch up a random post-it-note he’d made himself about a caterer that he thrust at Lambert for his consideration. Sometimes it was nice to just sit back and admire. _Marvel_ at the staggering beauty of your partner.

Aiden was fucking gorgeous, with his ruffled brown hair, his bright green eyes, and all that carefully trimmed stubble that made him look stupidly dashing. Lambert’s eyes wandered to the open collar of his polo shirt, swept down the length of his trimly built torso and then across his bare legs. It wasn’t just his physical beauty either. The guy was stunning on the inside too. He'd adopted two kids straight into his life and loved them without strings; Zoe and Mason adored him. Even if that’d been it, even if their relationship hadn’t been some kind of gift sent by a benevolent deity, that would’ve been enough for Lambert to give Aiden everything. 

_And he’s going to be all mine. Is all mine._ His chest buzzed with warmth. _Oh, shit. Getting sentimental._

The wedding talk filtered through Lambert’s internal slew of adoration as Aiden slumped back in his seat. “Oh, and, finally, the first dance - I, well, I know you said you were still thinking about the song, have you had any more thoughts?”

“Hm,” Lambert gazed thoughtfully over the garden, and then ducked into his guitar strap. Time to get a little bit of petty revenge. Just a _little_ bit. “Yeah, actually. Wanna’ hear?”

Aiden grinned. “Take it away, Bono.”

“Fucking Bono,” Lambert repeated, and shook his head. _Oh yeah, he had the perfect song._ His fingers strummed lazily across the strings as he swaggered out onto the lawn. It started off as a perfectly innocent country-rock number. “I come out, and down goes the sun, heading to the trailer park, looking for some fun,” he glanced back over his shoulder and saw Aiden’s face drain. 

_“She’s only eighteen, that’s how we do it where I’m from,_  
_She’s one bad bitch, leather to her toes,_  
_Your boyfriend’s in jail again, so baby let’s go,_  
_Take it down slow, give it top bone,_  
_Baby let me blow it down the back of your throat - yeah, yeah!”_

It was only an acoustic guitar, so he lost some of the impact, but the look of Aiden’s face as he strummed through the next verse was worth _every second_ of edging he was going to endure later. He bounced around the fig tree and gave the lyrics the full punk rock vocal treatment.

 _“Man, she’s got me blooded,  
The only thing I see,   
Is mumma’s little baby going down on me,  
Jumping off the couch, down onto her knees,  
My personal, professional pleasure machine,  
Another line of powder, bottle in her hand,   
Down to the bottom in the promised land_ \- oh, afternoon, Margaret!”

Their elderly neighbour was pruning her rose bushes on this fine weekend afternoon, and she was currently gazing at Lambert with a mixture of horror and macabre interest. Her bleached white perm peppered with loose leaves from where she’d paused mid-prune. Aiden appeared at Lambert’s elbow and snagged him by the bicep. “Margaret, I am _so_ sorry, this - he’s - it’s been a long week.” 

“Oh, my dear,” she smiled as she clipped another dead stem. “I think it’s a fantastic choice.”

“Margaret, remind me to bring around some Worther’s Ori—, ow, Aiden, _fuck._ ”

Lambert was herded into the house—“do you even know how hard I worked to pay off this house? I’m a _good_ neighbour, and you go singing about blowjobs in our back garden, you are an absolute _menace_. I’m going to teach you some manners, get upstairs, _get upstairs_. Fuck, I hope you weren’t expecting to come again this _century_ , don’t give me that little smirk”—and he laughed the entire way.

***

There’d been no letters for a full week. Aiden felt the grip on his heart loosen a little. It was also Thursday night, which meant the children were over for dinner. He paid the cabby—the BMW was still in for repair, and he was taking the train in—and smiled at the thump of dance music filtering through the front door. 

Coat, blazer and briefcase abandoned in the living room, Aiden walked through into the kitchen. Mason was busy dicing up vegetables—peppers, onions and cubes of pineapple—and Zoe was colouring in with a new set of pencils. The outline? A fat cheetah eating a donut. Lambert was shimmying in time with the music as he peered at the rice cooker.

_Come on and evacuate, feel the club is heating up, move on and accelerate, push it to the top, come on and evacuate, feel the club is heating up, move on and accelerate, you don't have to be afraid._

“Cascada,” Aiden mused as he peered at the Google Home Hub and jutted his chin out to receive the kiss placed there.

“Queen of the dance floor,” Lambert shimmied his hips; Zoe giggled, Mason cringed.

“More like _old woman_ of the dance floor,” their soon-to-be teenager grumbled, and Lambert peered around at him. 

“Hey, Mason.”

“No, dad, please.”

“ _Yes,_ dad,” Zoe crooned, brandishing a blue pencil with a broad grin.

 _“Now guess who's back on a brand new track? They got everybody in the club going mad, so everybody in the back, get your back up on the wall and just shake that thang. Go crazy, yo lady, yo baby, let me see you wreck that thang. Now drop it down low, low, let me see you take it to the dance-floor, yo.”_ Lambert rapped his way through the verse and, much to Aiden’s amusement, Mason recoiled.

“ _Dad,_ oh my god, you’re so cringe _,_ ” he covered his face with jumper-covered hands. “ _Uncle Eskel_ would never use the word ‘thang’.” 

“Mate, if uncle Eskel ever _saw_ a thang, he’d run away screaming,” Lambert mumbled. Not quietly enough.

“Daddy, what’s a thang?” Zoe asked. 

“Oh my—baby, you’re too young for—.”

“Also, daddy, what’s a slut drop?”

“Oh—ho—ho, no more American TV for you,” Lambert leaned down and pressed a kiss to her hair. “I’ll tell you when you’re older. Where the f—who told you about a—? Does your mum know? You didn’t hear that while you were here, right?”

Aiden chuckled and took over dicing the pineapple so that Mason could set the table. They were having sweet and sour chicken with rice, all made from scratch, of course. Lambert enjoyed showing his kids how to cook; it was one of the many, many things he’d never been taught. As the food was being plated up, Aiden glanced under the table, and then in the laundry basket—“Zoe, have you seen Virtute?”

As Chief Herder of the Cat, Zoe was best placed to know her whereabouts, but now she simply shrugged. “No, sorry,” she paused. “She might be hunting mouses?”

“Mice,” Lambert corrected as he swept her colouring away and replaced it with a plate of food.

“Mice,” she repeated dutifully, and grabbed her fork. “Do we have ice cream for afters?”

“We do, Neapolitan as requested,” Lambert picked Mason’s phone up from the table and tsked quietly at the bleat of protest. “Rules. Dinner time is family time.” There was no further argument and the four of them settled around the dining table. Zoe recounted her conversation with a boy called Thomas who’d taught her the term ‘slut drop’, apparently he’d asked her to do one but couldn’t really explain what it was. He thought it was something to do with dropping something on the floor. Lambert made a mental note to suss Thomas out on his next pickup. Mason’s grades in French were looking up with a little help from uncle Eskel, but he was still finding English boring. Science and mathematics? Gold stars across the board.

“The arts and humanities are just as important,” Aiden murmured, pushing his cutlery together. “Science allows us to live our lives, but the arts allow us to enjoy them.”

“Gonna’ get that printed and framed,” Lambert murmured, grunting as he received a kick to the shin in retaliation for his cheek. Aiden cleared the plates while Lambert scooped out four generous portions of ice cream into deep bowls. Just as he was kicking the dishwasher closed, there was a heavy knock at the door. Lambert glanced up. “Bit late for a delivery.”

“Mm,” Aiden left the warmth of the kitchen, unlatched the door and—

_Nothing._

The driveway was completely empty. Not a soul. He was about to shut the door again when he happened to glance down at the step and saw a white envelope with his name on the front. With a tight chest, he plucked it from the paving slabs and returned to the safety of the living room to open it.

_Another note._

But it wasn’t alone. There were two photographs. The first was of Lambert in front of Zoe’s school; he was still in his mechanics overalls, surrounded by women casting him appreciative glances that he probably didn’t even notice. The second was outside Mason’s school; Lambert held Zoe’s hand, his other on the back of Mason’s shoulder. 

_‘What a lovely family. I could’ve taken them from you without even leaving my car.’_

His hands were shaking uncontrollably, and as he leafed through the photos a clump of fur fell from the envelope. _A lump of soft, grey fur._ A strangled noise left Aiden’s throat, and he dropped the contents of his hands as his vision edged in white. His mind short circuited, unable to process— _anything._ Suddenly his legs were moving. He was running. His throat was hoarse— _he was screaming._

“Virtute!” He ran through the kitchen. The french doors ricocheted off the red brick of the house, and he staggered across the damp lawn. “Virtute!” 

“Aiden—? What the—?” Lambert appeared behind him, arms spread as if to calm a spooked animal, and the children watched from the kitchen with wide eyes. 

“Virtute, _please_ , no—Virtute!” He sobbed. The tears ran down his cheeks freely—

They’d taken—

Why—?

_Mrow._

Aiden dropped to his knees as a familiar furry form loped across the grass, her belly swinging. She’d been hiding. There was a long strip of fur missing down her side where someone had shaved it all off. It’d frightened her. 

“Oh my—fuck—Virtute,” Aiden sobbed as his ball of fluff rubbed around him, purring loudly. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry.” He scooped her up and held her close to his chest. His beautiful cat. The only thing that had got him through the trauma of six years ago. 

“ _Aiden,_ ” Lambert knelt down on the grass at his side, one hand stroking gently over his back. “Talk to me.”

“Call Keira,” Aiden stuttered. “She needs to come and collect the children. They’ve found me. They know where I live.”

***

The police arrived later that night. They collected the notes, the photographs, the fur. Virtute disappeared beneath Aiden’s bed to sulk about her new haircut, but Aiden was just grateful she was still with him. She was more than just a cat. She represented so much of what kept him stable. The police nodded sympathetically, but Aiden could sense they thought the end of their shift couldn’t come soon enough.

He was numb, and shaking. Barely spoke. Lambert had to do most of the talking for him, despite his general distrust of the good ol’ boys in blue. They took their evidence—probably to be lost inside the chain of custody, never to be seen again—and suggested they booked into a hotel for the night. 

When they were finally left in peace, Lambert sat back and reviewed the hurricane of different emotions blustering through his own head. _Anger was the most prevalent._ Someone had threatened his cubs; they knew where they went to school, had— _fuck_ , if he ever got his hands on the guy, there’d be nothing left. And then they’d systematically unpicked Aiden. Lambert could see it all now. The dark circles underneath his eyes, the sag in his shoulders, the penetrating misery in a usually bright demeanour.

“Aiden—,” Lambert leaned forward, one hand resting gently on the back of his lover’s shoulder.

“You need to go and stay with Eskel and Geralt,” Aiden croaked. “I’ll put Virtute in a cattery. I’ll stay in the flat. Hire G4S full time.” 

“Wait, no—I’ll come with you. We can stay in London together.”

“No,” Aiden barked and stood up suddenly. “I said I wouldn’t hide behind those I loved, and yet whoever this person is seems hellbent on getting to me through them anyway. You stay with Eskel, and Geralt. Where you’re safe.” _The further away from me you are, the safer you’ll be._

“You’re not thinking straight—,” Lambert stood now, trying to duck and weave so that Aiden looked at him. “You’re really expecting me to go stay with my home boys while there’s a fucking gun to your head?”

“Yes. I do,” Aiden reached up suddenly and took Lambert’s chin, tilting his face up so that he could gaze into those deep brown eyes. “I need to know you’re safe—I need to know they can’t get to you. Give the police some time to find this…” Aiden’s mind shifted to the file still in his flat with Albert Murphy’s name on it, “whoever this is.” 

Lambert opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat. He’d never seen Aiden like this. _Grey._ Aiden was colour, and life, and _noise._ But not now; now he was a shell. Lambert could stand there and stomp his feet, or parade his special forces training, or refuse to do as he’d been asked, but all it’d do would be to twist the thumbscrews a little tighter, and add a few more pounds to the deadweights on Aiden’s shoulders. “Okay, Aiden,” Lambert whispered. “Okay. But—you’re calling me. Every night. Do you understand? Every night.”

Aiden leaned forward, his forehead against Lambert’s, their eyes barely an inch apart. “Every night, I promise.”

For the first time in six years, Aiden felt like he was free falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert sings “Swallow” by VICTIM and “Evacuate the Dance Floor” by Cascada.


	17. (I Just) Died In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Trigger warnings:_ character injury.

In the week that followed Geralt was guarded and tentative. It wasn’t quite a return to their previous relationship of carefully curated distance, but Jaskier could feel Geralt’s absence like someone’d temporarily removed a piece of his heart. Because it _would_ be temporary, he knew that. The way Geralt had held him so tightly to his chest as he’d cried, face buried away in Jaskier’s neck or Eskel’s shirt intermittently, clearly defined their love as secure. Yet…

Perhaps he was embarrassed? Geralt wasn’t one for outpourings of emotion. His declarations of love were subtle—tender and adorable, of course—but quiet. Where Eskel’s face and eyes were a billboard for his every emotion, Geralt’s was an empty canvas. It was down to the viewer to dip their brush into the ichor of his eyes and paint their own interpretation upon it. Jaskier just needed to work out what picture he should be seeing.

The morning before his first exam, Jaskier nuzzled gently into the two sleepy lumps either side of him in search of affection. Eskel flopped over with a quiet groan, grumbling happily into Jaskier’s neck as he ground their bodies together. Jaskier could feel the length of that magnificent cock filling against the cleft of his ass as Eskel squirmed, big hands tugging at the waistband of his boxers. When they both reached to paw at Geralt, he rolled onto his side and shook his head. "No, 'm good," he mumbled sleepily, nuzzling into Eskel's hand as it stroked over his face, and kissing the back of Jaskier's knuckles before they withdrew. "Go ahead."

Two blue eyes watched them through a curtain of messy silvery-white hair, soft and sleepy in the early morning light sneaking through the cracks in the curtains, and Eskel pulled Jaskier over his chest. With Geralt so close, it felt odd at first; they were so used to this dance they had, only ever making love with just one other when the second happened to be out at the time. They enjoyed the intimacy of having both the people they loved in their arms, of feeling two pairs of lips on their skin and listening to two deep voices sigh in pleasure.

Tentatively, Jaskier dragged his eyes away and looked down at the bear of a man beneath him. His hazel eyes were still misty with sleep, but his body was awake and eager; skin flush, cock full and hot between Jaskier’s legs. With a mischievous smile, he lavished Eskel's neck and chest with the slow, wet kisses he loved, fingers kneading at the plush layer over his otherwise solid abdomen until his heart was beating harder and soft pants fell over parted lips. _He tasted so good._ His scent a mixture of faded cologne and something so deep, and rich, it could only be Eskel himself. Something innate, buried beneath his skin and only accessible to those with whom he was most intimate.

Jaskier sank down between thick thighs and licked long lines over Eskel's swollen cock, slowly, precisely, as large fingers stroked through his hair. “Mmph, Jaskier, _yes_ … please—ahh.” He could feel Geralt's touch occasionally; a flicker over his arm, or a thumb over his temple, in between fleeting caresses over Eskel’s side. Still connected, still involved, but at a level he was comfortable with. Jaskier licked the pearls of pre’ leaking from Eskel’s slit, finger lifting to play gently with his foreskin, rolling over his swollen head.

“Want me, Bear? Want me to spread you open?” Jaskier purred Eskel’s nickname and felt him shiver with delight at the offer, huge cock leaping in his hand. 

“Yeah,” Eskel shimmied a little higher, but Geralt had already leaned across and found the lube in his bedside cabinet. He placed it in Jaskier’s outstretched hand and then settled down again, his chin propped on one folded forearm as the other remained extended over the bed. Those same soft blue eyes watched as Jaskier slowly worked Eskel open on his fingers; he admired strong, muscular thighs as they tensed and quivered, watching Eskel arch and wriggle when Jaskier teased over _just the right_ spot. His avoidance was deliberate. Giving Eskel just a little taste, enough to make him needy, to make him spread his legs and cant his hips to urge Jaskier deeper. “ _Jaskier…"_ Eskel grated finally, with three fingers sliding in and out at an achingly slow pace.

“Yes, my love?” Jaskier withdrew his hand and Eskel _whined,_ only to cut it off with a growl of frustration when he wasn’t immediately filled with cock. An outrage.

“In. Now.”

Geralt smirked, smoothing his palm over one of the fists clenched in the bed sheets until it relaxed and their fingers could intertwine; he held Eskel’s hand as Jaskier lined up and pushed inside. Jaskier bit his lower lip as those strong legs covered in soft, dark hair wrapped around him; silky soft thighs braced over his hips as he was urged deeper with insistent tugs. The heat, the _tightness,_ it was so gloriously familiar. Jaskier moaned into the firm mounds of Eskel’s chest, lips clasping gently around a nipple as he finally pressed into the hilt. “ _Eskel,_ fuck—you’re so—ahh,” the experienced, powerful body sheathing him clenched and tremored, greedy and wanting. “Impatient.”

A quiet growl was his only response and he looked down into wide eyes dark with lust. Jaskier spread his knees and braced his hands on that broad chest, squeezing the warm flesh as he withdrew and snapped his hips forward without pause. “Come on, Bear,” he gasped as his own pleasure threatened to swamp his senses. “Growl at me some more.”

Geralt was content to watch his lovers as their bodies moved as one; Jaskier was agile, his well-furred torso rolling effortlessly to plough Eskel with a swift, hard rhythm that soon reduced him to bitten off gasps, dotted intermittently with Jaskier’s name and various iterations of “yes”. Eskel’s grip on his hand tightened as his pleasure became more desperate, and Geralt watched his cock loll and spasm beneath the grind of Jaskier’s body. 

His lovers were beautiful; in the contrast of their bodies—one darker skinned, with scars and marks of experience, the other lighter, milky and mostly unblemished, covered in a thick layer of fluff—and in the noises they made. Coos, and growls, and sighs, and “I love yous”. Geralt tugged the duvet further up his own torso, and brought Eskel’s hand to his lips. He kissed the seam where their palms met, and smiled against rough knuckles worn by years of abuse in harsh climates as Eskel squeezed through his orgasm. 

It was gentle. Languid. Jaskier whispered sweet nothings against his arched throat as he continued to thrust into his tightening hole, until his hips pressed flush with a satisfied groan. “Oh, _Eskel._ You’re a delight,” he sighed, and then just… _flopped_ gracelessly on top of that thick chest. “I’m staying here. Forever. The world doesn’t need another politics graduate.”

“Mm,” Eskel’s eyes were closed, but he was smiling. “Perhaps not, but MI5 does need a Jaskier. I hear there’s a vacancy.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jaskier sighed. “How ever will they achieve world dom—I mean, world peace without me, hm?” He pecked Eskel’s chest, slipped out with a soft grunt and pranced off towards the shower with all the pride of a stallion that had just mated with a very pretty filly.

Eskel rolled over into Geralt’s waiting arms and promptly fell asleep in his post-orgasm lull. Jaskier kissed them both before he left, lingering to stroke Geralt’s hair away from his face and whisper a soft “I love you” in his ear. 

The exam went well. As did the next, and the next one after that. Jaskier spent his mornings in one of the university’s many big halls, hastily scribbling down three years worth of degree knowledge on lined paper, the afternoons revising with Triss in a carefully selected cafe or food hall, and his evenings trying to gently tease Geralt out of his shell. Sometimes he was too drained, and could only curl up on the sofa with his head in a welcoming lap, gentle hands combing through his hair until he fell asleep. But he wanted Geralt back to—just _back._

One afternoon, he traipsed upstairs in search of a shower. Not because he hadn’t showered this morning, but exams left a smog over his head that he just couldn’t clear with one of three things: a shower, copious amounts of alcohol or sex. The second was counterproductive to his revision schedule and the third wasn’t a guarantee unless—

Jaskier stepped into Eskel’s bedroom and discovered a sight that simultaneously made his mouth water, his cock hard and his heart swell. Geralt had arrived home from his shift on the farm—they’d started him back on half days to keep the workload light—showered, donned his dressing gown and was not happily ironing by the bed. He’d thrown his hair up in that deliciously messy bun, a few loose strands tickling over his chiseled jaw, his beautiful neck exposed and oh-so-kissable. His gown hung open over his chest, and Jaskier’s eyes worked their way down one defined collarbone to the swell of an impressive pec, and—”Geralt, are you ironing my underwear?”

Geralt hummed softly, iron set down, and picked up an immaculately pressed pair of Jaskier’s boxers. “Standards,” he murmured, and then folded them neatly in half before reaching for another pair. Oh, this was one of his _things._ This was a Geralt Hurricane. When he got bored, or fidgety, or just went through a hyper focused period, he _cleaned._ Jaskier glanced around Eskel’s bedroom and sniffed lightly. _Yes._ Furniture polish. Every surface had been buffed, the linens on the bed changed, the floor hoovered. This wasn’t one of his worrying tells. It was a Geraltism. And Geraltisms were open for a little teasing. 

“Do my unironed boxer shorts offend you?” Jaskier threw his satchel onto the floor, deliberately allowing the books to spill out, and then began unbuttoning his shirt. Geralt looked up, narrowed his eyes on the offending bag, but otherwise didn’t react. After this long, he _also_ knew the game and wasn’t about to be so easily baited. Jaskier had to try harder. “Oh, fresh bedding too.” Shirt cast aside, but otherwise mostly dressed, Jaskier flung himself onto the bed, with its meticulously angled pillows and carefully folded hospital corners. He spread his arms and legs out and flapped them like a _duvet_ -angel—“so nice, so neat,”—and then sprang to his feet.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, steam hissing free from the iron, the corner of his eye twitching. “Make the bed again.”

“Oh, but of course,” Jaskier nodded gravely, and began to _royally_ fuck up the process. “Pillows like this—or perhaps like this, or—?” He knelt in the centre, twisting Eskel’s floral throw pillows left and right, deliberately avoiding their very obviously appropriate angle. “If we just—stuff the duvet down like this, and—.”

_Three, two, one…_

“Just—let me,” Geralt growled and reached across to straighten the pillow. _Snared._ Jaskier grabbed him by the collar of his dressing gown and pulled. At this angle, it was fairly simple to get him onto the bed. They wrestled for supremacy, Geralt griping and growling, Jaskier chuckling like a chipmunk on helium. While Geralt was a noble combatant—above board, very gentlemanly—Jaskier was not. He tickled, nipped, pinched sensitive nipples and was otherwise _very_ unsportsmanlike, until Geralt flopped onto his back, glaring up from the now _very_ ruffled duvet. “You’re so— _untidy._ ” He said it like it was the _worst_ insult he could possibly muster, but Jaskier simply grinned, because Geralt looked _too_ damn delicious. His bun had fallen loose, his dressing gown had fallen open so that the beautiful plains of his torso were exposed.

“I have to do _something_ to get your attention, my love,” Jaskier sat back on Geralt’s hips, releasing the wrists he’d pinned to the bed. He stroked Geralt’s chest gently, tracing the sensitive lines of his scars through the smattering of fine hair and grooves of flexing muscles. Geralt was watching him intently, blue eyes inspecting Jaskier’s heavily furred torso before finally lifting his hands to smooth his fingers through it. Jaskier smiled. But of course, he was soft and fluffy, why wouldn’t Geralt—tactile, sensitive and Confirmed Lover of All Things Soft—want to run his hands all over him? But it’d been weeks since he’d responded to more than handholding and kisses. Now though, Jaskier could feel the nudge of his arousal through the seat of his jeans.

When he leaned forward into Geralt’s hands, their mouths meeting in a slow kiss, Geralt sighed contentedly. Those curious fingers worked their way up his back and through the floppy mess of his hair, feeling silky-soft strands with another purr of pleasure. Jaskier pulled away, lavishing a final few soft kisses on Geralt’s lower lip. “I’ve missed you.”

“Hm,” Geralt smiled, pupils big, fingers still stroking through Jaskier’s hair. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

“Perhaps not physically,” Jaskier sat up a little further, taking Geralt’s hands in his to place kisses on the backs of his knuckles. “I’m sorry for—for what happened. I didn’t—.” A finger pressed over his lips, and Geralt sat up, pressing through his grip completely to cup his face.

“Not your fault,” Geralt murmured, head tilted to the side. 

“I thought you might be frightened of intimacy, that I might hurt you again, or—.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled his name that way whenever he was growing impatient. “I just needed some time. Nothing to do with you.” Another gentle kiss. Jaskier’s lips parted easily, and then he squeaked as Geralt rolled him over onto his back. “What have I told you about carrying the weight of the world?”

“Oh, I forget, you give me so _many_ lectures, Geralt—ahh, oi,” Jaskier batted at the big hands that tickled down his ribs, but allowed them to tease open his belt and jeans. “Are you sure? For definite this time.”

“If it’s alright with you,” Geralt stroked his palm over the firm bulge in the front of Jaskier’s boxers. “I’d rather skip the rope.”

“I’m—ooh, ahh, Geralt—yes, I’m quite alright with—okay, those are coming off then,” Jaskier wiggled out of his jeans and boxers as Geralt tugged at his waistband, and then bit his lower lip when a large palm curled around the base of his cock. “ _Geralt_ —ooh, fuck.” And then the tip disappeared between Geralt’s lips and Jaskier flopped onto the duvet. The man was an _artisan_ at giving head. For someone whose tongue seemed to remain inert for much of his life, he used it expertly to tease beneath the thick bulb of Jaskier’s head, pushing through the salty tears offered by the slit of his cock as it quivered between Geralt’s lips. “Geralt, _Geralt_ , please—come here, let me—.”

The heat of his mouth vanished. A power switched flicked, the door of the nightstand clicked, and Jaskier looked up from the bed to watch Geralt shed his dressing gown and white cotton boxers. The glorious curve of his prick made Jaskier’s mouth water; he could remember what it tasted like, the weight of it on his tongue, the girth of it in his throat when both his lovers worked him over. It stood free of his body, an elegant, subtle curve to the shaft and a neatly groomed thatch of dark curls at the base. 

Geralt straddled his thighs and took them both in one slick palm, grinding together with a roll of his hips and he leaned down for another kiss. In the moments their mouths separated, Geralt whispered into his jaw—”nngh, _Jaskier_ ,”—and Jaskier latched onto the firm globes of his ass. He spread his cheeks as he kneaded, pressing his hips up so that he could feel the heavy weight of Geralt’s balls slide over the base of his cock. If all they did was grind on each other to completion, it would’ve been enough, but Geralt clearly had a checklist of desires he’d been nursing while he built up his confidence.

His other hand pressed the pump of the bottle of lube and then disappeared behind his own back. With Jaskier spreading him open, it was effortless to slide his fingers around his own hole, spine arching so that he could dip the very tips inside. “Oh, _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier gasped, mouth slacks, eyes wide, as he watched his lover prep himself, still grinding needily across his cock with athletic little shimmies. Sweat gathered on their skin, mixing with dribbles of precome and lube, until Jaskier could feel the clean sheets sticking to his back. Geralt’s skin hummed with heat, which only grew more intense when his hips moved and his hand guided the tip of Jaskier’s cock into the cleft of his ass. “Oh— _oh,_ Geralt, ahh.” Jaskier arched as that tight ass slid over his shaft, the flare of his crown brushing over the soft furl of his hole, enticing and glowing with heat. 

Geralt was _watching_ him fall apart. His expression soft, his body relaxed; he spread his knees over the bed, splaying his thighs wide so that the underside of his cock brushed through the dark hair on Jaskier's stomach and Jaskier could feel the soft swell of Geralt's sac brushing over his groin. When he finally sat up, Jaskier was delirious. He panted a string of worship that sounded only vaguely poetic as Geralt’s ass sheathed him in a tight, blistering heat. The heavy weight of Geralt’s cock slid over his stomach as he ground himself down, growling in feral delight as he buried Jaskier deep.

Jaskier couldn’t stay inert. He sat up to bury his face in Geralt’s chest, squeezing the mounds of his pecs into his face as he nibbled, licked and kissed up to Geralt’s collarbone. “Beautiful, ethereal—herculean beast, you are—so _gorgeous,_ fuck,” he babbled, palms slipping then down the flexing muscles of Geralt’s back to the dimples at the base of his back. “Fuck, Geralt, yes, _yes_. You feel so—fuck, ahh, so good.” 

And the git was _laughing_ at him. Well, smiling with the odd breathless chuckle, big palms pressed Jaskier into the bed and then stayed splayed across his chest. He was kneading the fur there, eyes blown wide in lustful abandon. It was a heady thing to know your lover was so besotted with a part of you that sometimes made you a _little_ self conscious. Geralt pawed over his chest as he rode with increasing pace, chasing his release as Jaskier shook apart below him, squeezing a firm grip down the length of Geralt’s cock in time with his thrusts.

Even when Geralt came—his broad shoulders quaking as he painted Jaskier’s chest to his throat—he continued to roll his hips until he felt the cock inside him pulse, filling him with its load. With a contented growl, Geralt smoothed his hands through the pools of spend on Jaskier’s chest, rubbing it into his plush rug of hair. He kneaded along his biceps as he leaned down for a kiss, sucking wantonly on his lower lip. When he flopped off and sprawled out, Jaskier stared at the ceiling, jaw slack.

As the silence stretched, Geralt tilted his head, eyebrows quirked, and then chuckled. A deep, satisfied sound from deep in his chest.

Jasker blinked. “What?”

“You’re always silent after sex,” Geralt rumbled. “It’s the only time.”

“What can I say? You two render me speechless with the sheer magnificence of—,” he waved his hand vaguely in the air above his face, “—you.”

Geralt smiled and scratched idly at his jaw, and then hummed, disconcerted.

Jaskier lolled his head to the side once more. “Now what?”

“I need to change the bed sheets again.”

“Of course,” Jaskier threw his hand up in exasperation, and then rolled over to drape himself across Geralt’s chest. “Hugs first, laundry later.”

“Hm.” Now _that_ was a happy hum.

***

Eskel arrived home a few hours later, and Geralt immediately carried him upstairs for a thorough working over. Whatever healing time he’d needed was clearly over, because Eskel was left speechless and panting in the middle of the bed by the time Geralt was finished with him. They—that is to say, all three of them—were in the shower when the doorbell rang. It didn’t matter that there were two additional bathrooms, they still liked to cram into the cubicle together when the desire gripped them. It was Geralt that extracted himself from the tangle of soapy bodies, grabbed his towel and gown, before trotting downstairs.

_Lambert. With an overnight bag._

“Don’t give me that disappointed look, fluffykins,” Lambert growled. “It’s not permanent or—,” he raised an eyebrow, “have I interrupted snu-snu?”

Geralt sighed heavily through his nose and stepped aside. “Has he kicked you out?”

“Not exactly,” Lambert stepped over the threshold, finger and thumb rubbing into his eyes. “I—there’s some shit I need to tell you about. Are the others in?”

“Just getting out the shower,” Geralt tilted his head, examining the hunch to Lambert’s shoulders and the troubled droop to his face. “Tea?”

“Too kind,” Lambert dumped his bag by the door and slumped into the sofa. Geralt headed to the kitchen.

When Jaskier and Eskel emerged from the bathroom, they fell into the sofa cushions around Lambert, who accepted the hot drink trust into his hand. It was Eskel who, after only a brief analysis, realised the potential extent of what was wrong, and leaned forward. “Tell us. What’s happened?”

“Aiden’s having to stay in London for a while. The house isn’t safe.”

“Was there a break in?” Jaskier’s brow furrowed in concern.

“No, look—I’m going to tell you, but don’t freak out.” There was a general round of nods and shrugged shoulders so, after a deep breath, Lambert told them everything. The notes, the threats, the vandalism to the car, the photographs, the fur. They listened and the predictable reactions slowly filtered through; Jaskier looked horrified, Care Bear looked both confused and concerned, and Fluffykins’ expression just became sterner.

“What’re the police doing about it?” Eskel asked, broad palm cupping his own jaw.

“Jack. Shit,” Lambert growled. “But—Aiden, he—he wants to give them time; wants to… see what they turn up. Thing is I _know_ it’s him, I fucking _know._ I’m just… not sure what connections he’s using or…”

“Then we need to respect Aiden’s wishes,” Eskel nodded, and Lambert couldn’t help but smirk at the natural ‘we’. Because of course Care Bear would immediately see this as a ‘family’ affair. Not just Lambert’s problem; _their_ problem. “Zoe, Mason and Keira?”

“Police are keeping an eye on the place. I wanted to go sit ‘round there in a tent, but Keira wouldn’t have it, said I was overreacting,” Lambert sniffed. “Probably just Alan piddling himself at the thought of me being too close. Might think I’m trying to muscle in or some shit.”

“Well, your rooms just as you left it,” Jaskier piped up. “Stay as long as you need. We’ll… we’ll figure some way out to help Aiden.”

“Yeah, of course,” Lambert grunted. It was late. Eskel and Jaskier headed up to bed, but Geralt hung back for just a moment. He didn’t _say_ anything, but his gaze was heavy. The offer was unspoken. And Lambert simply nodded. The time allotted to the police to solve the problem was finite. After that, Geralt and Lambert would implement their usual strategy.

***

The person who coined the phrase ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’ was either an imbecile, or not entirely in touch with their emotions on the level they thought. Aiden wouldn’t use the word ‘fond’ to describe what he was feeling. More permanent, penetrating ache in his chest that made pressure build behind his eyes and his mind crowd with dark thoughts. At first it scared him a little. How had he become completely reliant on someone for his happiness and well being? Was he incapable of being happy as just _Aiden_ now?

But after a stiff drink, and a quiet cry in the safety of his own flat, he realised it wasn’t _that._ Of course he was happy as just _Aiden._ Before this had started, he was content to play golf with Ryan midweek, go swimming on his own, take long haul flights to conduct conferences; he wasn’t reliant on another in the way that he thought. _Not dependent._ He’d just allowed someone into his heart and now it was used to fleeing back to them when it was hurting. Not something it’d ever had before. Not weakness, but strength in another when your own was lacking. A safe haven to find catharsis and love without strings attached. 

He longed to have Lambert in his arms, desperate to feel all those emotions he did when his Kitten was there rather than this bottomless emptiness, occasionally crowded by consuming anxiety and crushing misery. Love, affection, happiness, safety and… control. The last part made bile rise in the back of his throat. _Control._ Because right now, trapped in his flat with security on both his front door and the communal entrance downstairs, Aiden had none of it. His agency had been stripped from him by a person without a face. He’d only ever felt this helpless immediately after the car accident. Unable to dress himself, eat, drive or even _walk_ without the aid of another.

_Free falling._

It got to the point when not even his evening facetime calls—something he thought about continuously for the entire day, and then dreamed about for the entire night afterwards—were enough to ease that hollow feeling. Lambert could see it. _Of course he could._ The man had survived this far in life because he was able to _read_ people so well. Be it to negotiate a truce, talk his way out of a problem… or dodge a fist before it was even thrown.

And Aiden was weak. _So weak._ So when Lambert offered—no, _said_ —he was coming over for a visit, Aiden accepted without hesitation. _Selfishly._ Putting Lambert in the crosshairs because he couldn’t bear another evening on his own with his tumbler of expensive alcohol and endless amounts of paperwork. He showered, shaved, wore the cologne that Lambert liked at his neck and paced for the few hours between finishing work and Lambert’s arrival. He couldn’t drink because they’d negotiated a scene. Lambert was bringing the toys he wanted—chain restraints because there was a hook in the ceiling he’d noticed with a salacious little smirk on his last visit here, some vibrators, a gratuitous amount of lube, and probably some other things because he liked the look of them—and Aiden had to be in the right mindset.

The knock on the door startled him. Heart hammering, he leaned up against the spyhole in the middle as he heard Lambert having a small disagreement with the suited guard on the door. “He’s more likely to murder me with a dildo than the other way ‘round, mate, but sure, if you’re that desperate to know the ins and outs of our sex life, have at.” 

The guard—unnamed, Aiden didn’t bother learning their names anymore because they changed so often—cleared his throat and Aiden opened the door. In that moment, he didn’t care a single iota for decorum, and flung himself into Lambert’s arms with a choked sob. Strong arms wrapped around his back and carried him back into the flat, the door kicked closed behind them as the duffle bag on Lambert’s shoulder clung on. “Easy, Aiden,” Lambert murmured into shower-fresh-and-fluffy hair. “It’s alright. You’re all good.” He didn’t bother trying to detach his koala, only lowering his arm long enough to drop the bag off before falling onto the sofa. Aiden burrowed, pressing his face into the bristles of Lambert’s beard, an occasional tremor running the full length of his body.

“Lambert,” Aiden squeaked, arms tightening around his shoulders, legs tightening at his hips. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—you should—I’m—.”

“Have you eaten?”

“What?”

“Have,” Lambert did detach his limpet now, lifting his face free so that he could look into those watery green eyes, “you eaten?”

The question seemed to confuse Aiden. As if he’d just been asked about an alien concept. _Eat-en?_ He fiddled with the cuff of his shirt and stared at the centre of Lambert’s chest. _What did he have for lunch?_ He was certain Ryan had bought him a sandwich from the M&S across the street, but had he eaten it, or was it still sitting on his desk? _Hmm._ “No, I… uh, I haven’t.”

“Thought not,” Lambert sighed. “Up. I bought the ingredients for chilli prawn linguine tonight, and then some bread for toast in the morning. You can’t cane my ass effectively on an empty stomach.” 

“You want to be caned, kitten?” Aiden flopped out of Lambert’s lap; it was effortless to fall into the familiar throes of their usual banter.

“Only if you want me to blubber like a baby again,” Lambert extracted the sealed tesco bag from the duffle and walked over to the kitchenette. After spending several nights here, he knew Aiden at least had a toaster, a deep pan and a frying pan. All he needed to whip up a quick meal. “Are tweedle-dee and tweedle-fuckhead always so irritating?”

“They’re just doing their job,” Aiden murmured, relaxing back into the cushion of the couch as he watched Lambert’s back. He was wearing one of his slim fit black shirts, and it tapered down at his waist, flared open over his chest and Aiden’s hands were itching to rip it off him. “Do you need any help?”

“No, sit there and look pretty,” Lambert splashed butter into the pan and emptied out his pre-diced ingredients from the freezer bags he’d stored them in. “Hey, Alexa, play ‘Died in Your Arms’…”

_Playing “Died In Your Arms by Throw the Fight.”_

“Who the fuck—?” Lambert glanced at the speaker as the shredding guitars cut in and then looked around at Aiden, who was just grinning at him stupidly from the couch. “Aiden, Cutting Crew are—that was a _classic._ ”

“I have an issue with eighties synth,” Aiden murmured.

“Hmm, and original tracks in general.” 

It didn’t take long to whip up their dinner. Lambert sprinkled his fresh coriander over the top and then thrust a bowl heaped with pasta, prawns and vegetables into Aiden’s lap while they watched the news. It was like being at home and Aiden relaxed into Lambert’s side while he _inhaled_ his meal. His senses were all coming back—he felt warm, his stomach growled ravenously—as if he’d just been removed from stasis. The world was flooding back in. Only now did he realise he’d been watching it through a detached haze.

Bowls and cutlery ditched in the sink, Lambert returned and fell easily into Aiden’s waiting arms. They draped over each other as their bodies stashed their food away. The news turned into a movie—Lucy with Scarlett Johansson—and Aiden must’ve dozed off because one moment Lucy was getting beaten up by mobsters, and then the next he was watching the credits scroll.

“You didn’t miss much,” Lambert murmured, nuzzling a kiss into Aiden’s hair. “Entirely forgettable and the ‘science’,” he lifted his fingers up in quotation marks, “was _completely_ baseless. Minus two out of ten.”

“Oh, savage,” Aiden smiled and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you for dinner, and—everything.”

“We’ve already sent the measurements for the suits. I’ll be really fucked off if it doesn’t fit you because you haven’t been eating,” Lambert smirked, and then fell back into the sofa cushions as Aiden climbed over him for a kiss. Aiden’s mouth closed over his upper lip, and then teased around his lower, tongue lapping inside only once he’d worshipped his fill. It took all of about five seconds for his cock to react, pressing insistently against the fly of his jeans to find its partner testing the limits of Aiden’s slacks. Their hips ground slowly together, one of Lambert’s legs falling from the sofa so that Aiden’s could slot between his thighs. When the first button pinged off his fucking shirt though, Lambert tilted his head back. “Really?”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Aiden growled into the arch of his neck. “ _Please._ ”

“Hmm, guess I’ve ruined enough of your suits.”

“Mmmhm,” Aiden purred as another few buttons came away; he was clawing his way to Lambert’s skin, nails finally raking through his chest hair with a satisfied groan. “Blindfold?”

“Yes,” Lambert replied, his own hands gripping at Aiden’s sides as he bit at his chest. With the slow grind of his body between Lambert’s legs, teasing over his eager cock, it threatened to bring quite a premature happy ending. “ _Nngh._ Easy, or I’ll come in my pants before we even get to the good bit.”

“No, you won’t. Because I didn’t give you my permission,” Aiden worked his teeth gently around a perked nipple, listening to Lambert’s breath stutter, chest pressing up into his face. “And you’re still happy with having your arms chained above your head? If they start going numb, you—.”

“ _Aiden,_ ” Lambert groaned. “Come on, how long have we been doing this? Truss me up like a beef joint and let’s get this _going._ ” Insistent hands guided Aiden away so that Lambert could sit up. Face and chest flushed, jeans painfully snug, he waited for Aiden to take up the reins to guide their session. When those soft lips returned to his, he whined impatiently, then nearly melted on the spot when Aiden gripped him by the back of the neck and pulled him away.

“Take everything off. Stand naked, and wait.”

Aiden slipped easily into his role. It was like donning an old suit; known, familiar and _comfortable._ The weight lifted from his shoulders, even though his hands still felt a little shaky and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Lambert for more than a few seconds while he emptied the contents of the duffle bag. Lambert had bought all his restraints with him—wrists, ankles, neck—but Aiden only wanted one set. He pulled a chair over from the never-used dining table to secure the straps to the hook in the ceiling. Lambert had correctly identified its true purpose, even if visitors dismissed it as a leftover from an old chandelier.

The cuffs dangled a little above head height and Aiden tugged at them to test his knots around the hook. _Perfect._ Next, he laid out the ridged vibrator, the blindfold and the lubricant on the bed, before rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. It’d be a simple scene. A little bit of deprivation, submission and control. Aiden craved it like an addict. He wanted to watch Lambert’s body flex and tighten desperately, wanted to—

He looked up to the man himself and had to scramble for his composure. Lambert stood by the sofa expectantly, his clothes folded over the back. After weeks of separation, and only a bit of mutual masterbation over the iPad, to see Lambert in all his glory was breathtaking. Aiden drifted over to him, gaze running down the curves of his torso to the proud, rigid cock standing up from his body, the head flushed a dark red, pretty balls tight between his muscular thighs. The red marks on his chest and neck were still visible and Aiden felt his own cock throb needily. “Come with me, kitten.”

Aiden curled his fingers around Lambert’s shaft and tugged gently, leading him those few paces to stand beneath the restraints. “Arms up.” The leather of the cuffs were soft, but deceptively wrong; they wouldn’t cut into Lambert’s wrists if he pulled, but he couldn’t find much give there either. Aiden tightened the buckled and slipped his pinky finger beneath them to check their grip. Next, he picked up the blindfold and placed a kiss below each of those gorgeous brown eyes before covering them over. “How many fingers am I holding up?” Aiden flashed his middle one.

“Dunno. But probably your middle one knowing you, predictable fuck,” Lambert grumbled, full lips twitching up in a challenging little smirk.

“I see you didn’t bring the gag. You’re going to apologise for calling me a ‘predictable fuck’ before I let you come.”

“Hmm,” Lambert tilted his head back, ears brushing over his biceps as he flexed in his restraints, the ripple of tension that passed through his body made every muscle bulge. _Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing._ Aiden’s hands dropped away from his neck and he took a moment to _admire._ Treading softly as he circled, lower lip between his teeth, Aiden's eyes followed the contours of Lambert’s body; his tight ass which would look so beautiful as Aiden sank into it, his broad back with its defined muscles, flexed and taut where his arms were above his head, the way his torso tapered from wide shoulders to narrow waist, and thick, rugby playing thighs. Aiden was still fully clothed, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d be able to stand the restraint of it.

“So pretty,” Aiden breathed near Lambert’s ear, words whispering over his neck even as his fingers did the same over his waist; the lightest _ghost_ of a touch, but enough to send goosebumps flaring over Lambert's skin. He continued his slow prowl. 

No matter how much Lambert strained to hear him, to predict where he’d touch next, he couldn’t. It was impossible. Gentle fingers brushed over his lower back one moment, and then his chest the next. A brief reminder of his vulnerability; his pleasure at Aiden’s mercy. His entire body quivered with anticipation between each caress he was granted; shallow breaths devolving to rapid pants; soft grunts to longer, deeper groans. Fingertips fluttered over his sensitive nipples, beneath the curves of his ass, across the silky soft skin of his inner thighs. _So_ perfect, and yet nowhere near enough. Until —

“Aiden, please,” Lambert whispered, his throat tight. “Can you—touch me properly—come on—.” His hips swayed, cock thrusting into empty air in desperate search of friction. A mere second later Aiden’s mouth pressed to his hairline, hands sweeping around his sides to squeeze his chest. Lambert’s body sprang taut, and he moaned as Aiden’s sucked and bit a possessive line down his neck. He could feel the hardline of his cock rubbing into the cleft of his ass through the starched material of Aiden’s trousers, and spread his feet a little wider, hips tilting back in hopes that friction might just brush his hole and the back of his balls—

“Oh, kitten, presenting for me?” Aiden growled in delight, hands slipping down to Lambert’s hips to grind a little harder. “Not quite desperate enough though.”

 _And then he was gone._ Lambert whined in frustration, tugging down at the straps above his head. He could feel beads of pre’ dripping down the length of his cock, aching balls like leaden weights between his thighs. Aiden wasn’t the only one that’d craved touch during their separation. Every nerve-ending in his body screamed for the tiniest sliver of physical contact. _Knew he should’ve had a wank before leaving._

“Aiden…” He could hear the pump of the tub of lube and his body bunched in anticipation of the first touch. His skin prickled as Aiden drew near and his cock twitched and he gnawed on his lower lip. He definitely _did not_ expect the warm mouth that descended over his leaking head, nor the soft moan that vibrated up the length of his shaft and pooled in his groin. “Ahh, Aiden. So good, _fuck,_ please.” Lambert longed to see those fill lips descending over him, rippling over the thick, throbbing veins; he tossed his head irritably, hoping to unseat the blindfold, but it was tied too snugly. _And then Aiden pulled away._ “No, please…”

“Too soon,” Aiden said, the warm puff of his breath clouding around the tip of Lambert’s cock; his lips must be barely an inch away. “Be good for me.” Slick fingers pressed gently over Lambert’s balls and slid down his taint; his fingernails bit into his palms as Aiden circled, tugging at his rim with a gentle fingertip, teasing. When he finally slipped a finger inside, it was achingly slow, as if he was savouring the soft heat, the easy, needy give of Lambert’s body. 

“ _Aiden,_ ” Lambert gasped, muscles in his lower back bunching, as Aiden worked him open. Gentle, smooth glides of one, then two and finally three fingers that his body clenched around desperately. Soft fingertips rubbed over his prostate, pressure firm, but still languid; he could _feel_ the cusp of his orgasm, but Aiden was making it easy to walk the brink. Pleasure crackled through his hips, wound up his spine, and his head fell back.

Aiden pressed his face to Lambert’s thigh, breathing the musky scent of him deeply. How he longed to bury his face between Lambert’s legs and just _feast_. But this was an exercise in control. Of Lambert, of himself. He’d been in a tailspin for days— _weeks_ , even—but now he was stable. With Lambert bound and in his care, desperate for his slightest touch, Aiden felt the familiar swell of comfortable dominance envelop his mind. All he had to do was focus on Lambert. His every breath, his every whimper, every needy clench of his body. His beautiful submissive—his partner—gave him balance. 

He withdrew his fingers slowly, trailing them over the seam of Lambert’s balls to the base of his cock, before removing his touch completely. Lambert mewled quietly in disappointment because he couldn’t see Aiden drenching the vibrator in lube. When the tip nudged gently against his relaxed hole, he bucked forward, cock brushing over Aiden’s ear. “Being so good, kitten. Stay perfectly still. I want you to take all of this for me.” 

It was one of their thicker toys, with soft, rubbery ridges to present an extra challenge. While it wouldn’t push as deep as Aiden, it’d leave his kitten open and loose, ready to be filled to the brim. “Ahh, ahh,” Lambert gasped as Aiden worked it in gently, the first ridge pushing inside easily as Aiden set the vibrations on the lowest setting. “Nngh, Aiden, please. Fuck, ahh.” The buckles around Lambert’s wrists rattled as he shook, thighs quivering as each centimeter thrust deeper inside him. The stretch of it made him keen, another ridge spreading his rim wide. He wanted it faster, harder, wanted to be bouncing on it with Aiden’s mouth on his cock. 

“Good boy, just a little more—,” Aiden whispered, teeth nipping at the soft flesh of Lambert’s thigh.

“Nngh, Aiden, _Aiden_ , please, it’s— _fuck_ —ahh.” Lambert arched at the gentle twist that landed one of those thick rings on his prostate, the vibrations making his entire body throb. It was torture. His orgasm teased at the very edges of his senses, and he shook as he tried to resist it. Lambert’s desperate moans, the soft slurp of his body as Aiden moved the vibrator only enough for the last ridge to pop in and out of Lambert’s hole, were intoxicating. Aiden finally pressed a hand to his own crotch and felt the hot iron of his erection through the material of his trousers. _Come on, kitten. Beg me, beg me and let me have you._

Aiden nosed along his cock, lips pressing into the thick, dark curls at the base. For him this was a form of worship; Lambert’s beautiful body taut and exposed, sheened with sweat and humming with pleasure. The culmination of the ritual was the moment he spread his thighs and took him. Just one more hurdle—just one more—

“Please, Aiden, please let me come, fuck me, I want to ride your cock, _please,_ ” Lambert gasped.

“Just a little matter of—.”

“I’m sorry, didn’t— _ahh_ , Aiden—please, you’re not—I’m sorry.”

Lambert’s body shook as Aiden pulled the vibrator free, still gentle despite the anticipation that made his hands quiver. He rose slowly to his feet and took Lambert’s blindfold off. Deep brown eyes were red and desperate, and Aiden pressed a gentle kiss in the centre of Lambert’s forehead. “Going to lay you down and fuck you, kitten.”

“ _Yes, yes…_ ”

“I want you to spread your legs so wide for me, I’m going to hold your wrists, you won’t be able to resist.”

“ _Yes, Aiden…_ ” Lambert half sobbed. The dull ache in his belly and balls almost enough to make the rest of his body numb. Aiden stripped slowly, his silk shirt pouring off his shoulders like water, Lambert tugged hard at the restraints, desperate to run his fingers over the familiar scars and grooves of Aiden’s torso. He could only watch as belt and trousers were undone slowly, the huge prick that would soon be spearing him open pressing damp spots in the front of his tight cotton boxers. “ _Fuck.”_ The waistband dragged the thick shaft of Aiden’s cock down, and Lambert’s mouth watered when it finally sprang free. 

Perhaps it was the incessant, desperate thrum running through his body or the sheer length of time it’d been since they’d touched each other, but Lambert decided suddenly he didn’t want to wait the few seconds it’d take to unbuckle him and fall onto the bed. A part of his mind—the bit that always wanted to please, to be _good_ —baulked at the disobedience, but he couldn’t control it. His arms tensed and he lifted his feet from the floor, legs wrapping Aiden’s waist to pull him close. “Kitten—,” Aiden started his reprimand, but the damp tip of his cock brushed over the slick, open hole waiting for him and he couldn’t bite back the moan. There was enough slack for Lambert to be able to sink down to the root, and the tension in his arms and chest were delicious. “Go on then, baby. Fuck yourself on my prick.” 

Aiden gripped the base of his cock to keep it steady as Lambert squirmed into place. They both groaned as they finally slid together. Lambert’s body opened so easily, smooth and wet, pressing down until Aiden was fully seated. Two hands gripped his ass, spreading his cheeks open as Aiden thrust up, providing a solid foundation for Lambert to grind against. His body rippled, biceps bulging, chest flushed and red, as he rocked himself onto Aiden’s prick. Head thrown back, he cried out desperate bleats of pleasure as he felt every inch move inside him. Aiden watched in awe, panting through open lips, as this beautiful creature unravelled himself. Every thrust was hard, frantic; agile hips rolling, desperate for the perfect angle, and when he found it—”Ahh-AH! Aiden, fuck,”—Aiden kept his body tilted for him, so all he had to do was fuck himself into oblivion. 

“Come for me, kitten. Don’t stop yourself, let me hear you,” Aiden bit kisses into Lambert’s chest, and felt the orgasm shudder through him beneath his lips. He felt the warmth of it splash over his stomach, helping Lambert continue a gentle pace to milk his aftershocks. “Hold on to me.” The restraints came away easily, quick release buckles bent backwards so that Lambert’s arm—now slightly numb and tingly—could drop limply around Aiden’s shoulders. With a grunt of effort, Aiden turned them to the bed, lowering his treasured cargo onto the soft sheets before sinking back inside him. Lambert arched, nails biting into Aiden’s shoulders, legs tightening at his waist. 

It didn’t take long. Looking into those deep, beautiful eyes, listening to Lambert gasp and choke out strung out moans, their bodies slick with sweat and Lambert’s spend sliding effortlessly together. Aiden sank in deep with a low groan as he peaked, biting a final mark in Lambert’s neck, fists bunching in the sheets beside his head. He took a moment to catch his breath, open mouth still pressed to hot skin, before he drew away. Lambert was shaking, his eyes still red and watering, and Aiden sat up. “Hey, hey, come here,” he gathered his love into his arms, tucking his head beneath his chin. “You were perfect, a little cheeky, but it’s my fault. I teased you for too long, and we’ve been apart for ages.”

Broad shoulders relaxed. He wasn’t frightened, not really. It was a visceral reaction to feeling vulnerable and desperate. It would take Lambert a little while to come back down, but now he’d been reassured he hadn’t done anything wrong, he could relax and float. Aiden held him close, revelling in his position of caregiver and anchor; in control, _useful_ , caring for the one he loved. This was Aiden’s raison d’etre. Without it, he was hollow and directionless. As Lambert melted a little more, nosing up beneath Aiden’s chin with sleepy kisses, he spread him out on his back and disappeared briefly.

When he returned, he cleaned them both up, mopping Lambert’s body reverently and leaving kisses on each area of skin once he’d cleaned it. He placed a final one on Lambert’s soft cock as he cleaned between his legs, and then sat him up for some water. “I don’t have any chocolate,” he whispered, stroking the backs of his fingers down Lambert’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Hmm,” Lambert purred, slumping back against the pillows. “Knew I’d forgot somethin’. Fuckin’ bondage chocolate.” They both smirked at each other, and then burrowed beneath the duvet for a longer cuddle. Aiden spent time kissing each of the marks he’d left, and then settled with his head on Lambert’s chest. With the love of his life so close, he slept properly for the first time in days.

***

The following morning Lambert had to head home. He had work, had to pick the kids up—how had yet another Thursday come around so quickly?—and attend parent’s evening. Aiden pressed him to the back of the door and kissed him feverishly before he left. “Thank you.”

“I wish you’d come home,” Lambert murmured, brushing his nose across Aiden’s before he drew away. “No one’ll hurt you with me around. I promise.”

“You know that’s not what I’m worried about,” Aiden stroked his thumb over Lambert’s lower lip, and then pulled him off the door to open it. “It won’t be forever. The police say they’re on the right track.”

“The police _always_ fuckin’ say that,” Lambert grumbled, and then left with a parting squeeze of the hand, duffle bag over his shoulder.

A weight had lifted from Aiden’s shoulders. Even though they’d had to part ways again, just that one evening—dinner, their small scene, making love, holding Lambert the whole night—had reinforced the foundations of his composure. He didn’t feel as rattled, or as vulnerable, and his mind slipped easily into work-mode that morning. His current caseload was fairly straightforward, but his presence was required at court in an advisory capacity for one of them, so he packed his briefcase and took his little entourage on a quick jaunt across town.

As court adjourned for a break, Aiden left Ryan and the others in the workspace they’d been allocated and headed out for some fresh air. 

He didn’t even think.

Perhaps if he’d checked his mailbox that morning and seen the note, he would’ve been a bit more cautious.

Perhaps. What-ifs. Pointless reflections of the helpless in the face of the inevitable.

Aiden walked down the red-brick steps from the courthouse fiddling with his bluetooth headset as an older man in a dark suit, smart trench coat and black leather gloves left a seat on the bench where he’d been feeding the pigeons. Aiden didn’t even see him.

No—he didn’t see him reach into his jacket and pull out a silenced pistol, no doubt with its serial number filed off to make it untraceable, nor did he see the intent look on his face as they drew near; Aiden descending towards the street, the man, as yet unidentified, moving towards the courthouse.

But his bodyguards did. They’d burst out of the doors in Aiden’s wake having noticed their charge up and leave only when they saw him over the top of their newspapers as he drifted down the corridors. “Sir! Aiden!” One of them roared as they recognised a familiar movement in the man nearby. Aiden glanced over his shoulder just as he heard a low whistle, and felt a sharp pain punch into the right side of his torso. 

Television teaches us that people fall down when they’re shot. They get blown backwards or somehow thrown from their feet by the sheer _force_ of the impact. The truth is… that didn’t happen. Not really. Lambert had told Aiden a story of a young lad in Lebanon who’d been shot six times—once in the throat, which he _swallowed_ —and was still talking lucidly to doctors when they arrived to give him medical aid.

Aiden winced and gasped. There was a tightness in his chest as his body went reflexively into shock, and he pressed a palm over the burning pain. One of his bodyguards barrelled past him and took out the assailant, while the other was there to catch him when he staggered. It was the sight of the blood. It dripped through his fingers, falling like autumn rain onto the steps, and his vision edged in grey. 

_I’ve been—there’s a—what—_

Tears welled in his eyes as he began to panic—”sir, stay with me, it’s alright, we’re calling an ambulance, Aiden, _stay with me_ ,”—a familiar voice. Ryan? How’d he got here so fast? How much time had—?

Aiden began to shake uncontrollably. His world faded into black as his eyes stared blankly at the grey skies above. His blood flooded the grey mortar edging the red bricks of the steps to the Old Bailey.


	18. The Strong

There are certain points in life when you become aware that time is _relative._ It passes at different rates for different people. For Lambert, the moment that phone call came through, the entire world seemed to grind to a halt. Even his brain appeared to be working at a geriatric pace. He managed to pick up key words from Ryan's explanation. _Important_ words. _Shot. Lost a lot of blood. Still alive. Intensive care._

He stumbled down the stairs, almost missing the last three, but Eskel was there to catch him as he stumbled. “Lambert—?”

“Aiden,” Lambert wheezed. “Aiden’s been shot. He… I… need to get to London.”

Anger. Outrage. They were all numb in the face of the all-consuming _terror_ of it. The fear that he’d lose Aiden. He _couldn’t_ lose Aiden. His life had only started again in that coffee shop; the moment Aiden picked up a broken, battered creature and saw just a glimmer of possibility. Something worth saving, investing in and _loving._

Eskel snatched the Audi keys just as Geralt rose from the sofa. “Wait for Jaskier, then grab the train or a cab into town, I’ll cover it.” He grabbed his coat from the back of the door and followed in Lambert’s stumbling wake. 

Even though they took the A10 and M25 at an average of ninety miles per hour, Lambert still felt like they were wading through treacle. _Too slow, too slow._ He needed to be at Aiden’s side _now._ Needed to hold his hand and feel the warmth of life still in his fingers. They passed into the congestion zone, drove through Finchley and Wood Green—Lambert’s old stomping grounds—weaved through the traffic heading into ZSL London Zoo and saw the brief flash of green that was Hyde Park. Aiden had been airlifted to the University College Hospital. They weren’t sure what’d been hit. There was a lot of blood.

They ran through the bleached white corridors, ignoring the calls of several nurses who asked them to _‘walk, please’_ , until they reached the reception desk of the emergency department. Lambert practically fell up against the desk, his mind in complete disarray. “Aiden Taylor, where is he?”

The woman behind the desk squinted at him over her half-moon glasses. “Relation?”

“I’m, uh… yeah… I’m…” Lambert could feel his horror melt into desperate tears.

“His fiance,” Eskel stepped forward, one big hand looping around Lambert’s elbow to keep him steady. “He’s his fiance. Lambert Murphy.” 

She tapped away calmly on her computer. _Calmly_. As if the most important man in the world’s life didn’t hang in the balance, and Lambert clenched his teeth against the search of abuse that threatened to explode forth. _She was doing her job. Didn’t deserve it._ He focused on the grip of Care Bear’s fingers around his arm and found some stability there. Finally, she looked up from her screen. “He’s still in surgery. One of our ward nurses will take you through the waiting room and alert his care team.”

“Can’t I fucking see him? Why can’t I go in?”

“Lambert,” Eskel spoke softly, but the deep rumble of his voice easily snatched Lambert’s attention away from the building typhoon of anger in his head. “You know why. Let them work. We need to wait, alright? We need to wait.” 

The waiting room—nicknamed innocuously _the family room_ —was completely empty. The green, plastic covered chairs lined neatly against a wall, a few low coffee tables scattered with old, scrappy magazines on everything from fishing to women’s housekeeping monthlies. Lambert paced laps around the small maze of furniture, his hands running repeatedly through his hair, clenching it with frustration. Eskel left briefly to get him a drink and some coffee, but the latter was left to get cold.

Hours passed. _Hours._ Jaskier and Geralt arrived and took up a seat in the family room with them. There was nothing they could say. Jaskier looked on, face creased with worry, and Geralt rested a hand on Lambert’s shoulder before taking up his post at Eskel’s side.

“What if he’s—? Eskel, what if—?”

“No,” Eskel shook his head. “No what ifs. We wait. Drink this.”

Only when the water bottle was proffered to him did Lambert realise how dry his mouth was. He necked the lot in one go and threw the empty into the bin by the door. Just as the plastic rustled through the liner, a man in shirtsleeves and slacks stepped into the waiting room. “Lambert Murphy?”

“Yes,” Lambert froze. His heart stopped. He tried desperately to read the doctor’s expression, but his usually high emotional intelligence seemed to have completely failed him. 

“Aiden’s stable. He’s in the ICU. You can come and see him now,” he paused, glancing over Lambert’s shoulder. Usually it wasn’t common practice to let anyone but close family in, but one more look at the man shaking apart before him made the doctor re-evaluate that loose ground rule. “You can take one of your friends with you, but I’m afraid we need to keep visitation to a minimum.”

Lambert looked instantly at Eskel, who simply nodded and followed in Lambert’s wake. Geralt and Eskel both occupied clearly defined roles in Lambert’s life; Eskel was the caring one. The one that came and found him when he was in trouble, picked him out of the dirt and dusted him off. Geralt… well, his role would become more important a little later on. The surgeon escorted the two of them up a floor via the elevator.

The smell of disinfectant and the beep of high-tech machinery crowded the ICU they stepped into. Aiden was in his own room, and Lambert’s legs nearly failed him when he stepped through the door. The intubation tube was still in—of course it was, what was he expecting? Aiden awake? Smirking, “you were so worried, I’m fine,”—his skin ashen grey, his arms dotted with tubes, wires and cannulas. 

He must’ve fallen, because Eskel’s arm was around his chest, holding him up. “Easy, Lamb. Easy. Take a deep breath,” Eskel murmured, and then walked forward, still supporting Lambert’s jittery progress. Shaking hands extended to one of Aiden’s where it rested on top of the blanket and wrapped gently around his fingers.

 _Warm._ He was still warm. Lambert bit out a strangled cry and dissolved. Eskel moved a chair into place for him before he collapsed onto the floor, and slid a hand over the back of his neck as he sobbed into the bed, trembling hands still clutching Aiden’s fingers as if they were made of glass. Eskel looked up to the surgeon and indicated silently for some more time. There was no point trying to tell Lambert _anything_ in that moment. “Y’alright, Lamb. He’s alright. It’s okay.” 

When Lambert was calmer, the surgeon returned to explain the situation. The bullet had nicked his right kidney and stayed lodged. The surgery was complicated, and they couldn’t save the organ so Aiden was down to one. He was strong and otherwise healthy, so his prognosis was positive. People lived long and happy lives with just the one kidney, with regular checks on function and blood pressure required a bit later in life. He’d lost a lot of blood. The coma was artificial for the pain and the shock. Both Eskel and Lambert listened, but Eskel was certain he was the only one that actually absorbed the information. He’d tell Lambert again later.

Geralt arrived a little later with hot mugs of tea and swapped out so that Eskel could go refresh. Jaskier was waiting for him in the family room, and stroked his hair to help him calm. It was difficult to see a loved one in distress, and the support network needed its comfort too. “How does he look?”

“Alive,” Eskel murmured, turning his face into Jaskier’s neck as slender fingers continued to comb through his hair. “Not out of the woods yet, but the surgeon was positive. I’ve not seen Lambert like that since—mm, since he came back from—.”

“It’s alright, I get it, try not to think about that,” Jaskier soothed. “You’re here for him. We all are. For both of them. And that’s all that matters.”

Geralt sat opposite Lambert in Aiden’s room, his eyes sliding from Aiden’s unconscious form to Lambert’s blank expression. He still held his partner’s hand, fingers wound together as if they’d never come apart again, but his mind was now elsewhere. His voice cracked when he finally spoke. “They need to pay for this, Geralt.” 

“If you’re sure that’s what you want,” Geralt replied quietly. “If we follow usual protocol, then there’s no taking it back. And we would need to be thorough to prevent anything coming back on either of us, or our families.” 

It made Lambert feel a bit sick. He was sitting here with Aiden—alive, _just_ —and all he could think about was taking a pound of flesh in response. Even after all this time, he still defaulted to his original settings. But it wasn’t just Aiden, was it? They’d threatened his children. They’d invaded his home and made it unsafe. His father—in name only—had tried to destroy his life even all these years later, and Lambert was _done_ being that man’s victim. He wasn’t going to allow his family to become his next one either.

“I’ve done so many bad things in my life, Geralt. Out of anger, spite. Things I regret every single fucking day,” Lambert lifted his gaze finally, blinking in the harsh overhead lights. “My kids, Aiden. They’re good things I’ve done. Not all the time—but, I—in the end, I got them right. And these fucks nearly took it all away.”

Geralt nodded slowly and leaned forward. “You mentioned that Aiden had found some old files, and he only sent copies to the police?”

“Yeah, he never really told me much about the contents,” Lambert squeezed the fingers in his grip gently. “Didn’t want me making a drama probably.”

“Hm,” Geralt considered Aiden closely. From the little time they’d known each other, Geralt had made a number of assessments. Aiden was organised and meticulous—he left nothing to chance, his shooting being a clear exception—and he was exceptionally _private._ He had very little social media presence—the PoF profile had disappeared a few months after he met Lambert, and his LinkedIn account was organised by the company—and played his cards close to his chest. There were issues with control, and sometimes trust. “Have you got his flat keys?”

“Uh,” Lambert squinted. “Yeah, they said there’s a set in the bag over there.” A bag Lambert had gone _nowhere near_ because it was full of bloodied clothes. Aiden’s blood. Blood that should never have been shed. Wouldn’t have been if Lambert had just—, no. The blame game was pointless. “What you thinkin’?”

“I doubt Aiden would’ve sent those files then put them back in the archive. He’d want them close. I’ll go have a look and see what he’s found, then—,” Geralt sighed, pausing as he rooted through the clear plastic bag and found Aiden’s flat keys, “we need to pay your father a visit. I’m sorry.”

Lamber grunted. “It’s fine. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Eskel returned shortly after Geralt’s departure. More food, more drinks. Lambert managed to wolf down half a sandwich, but his stomach felt like it was at sea, so he declined anything further in fear of revisiting it. The first night he slept in the chair at Aiden’s side, still holding his hand; the nurses brought him a pillow and a blanket when they came to check Aiden’s readings, but he still ended up slumped on the bed with Aiden’s arm pressed to his cheek. He needed to feel his warmth, needed to smell him, _feel_ him for his mind to rest.

He showered in the en suite connected to the room when Eskel brought him his washkit and fresh clothes from the flat, and Jaskier returned to Cambridge briefly to sit his final three exams before returning. Four days crawled by and they slowly began to remove the tubes and the cannulas. Just the one in his throat, and another in his hand for pain relief. He just needed to wake up on his own.

On the fifth day, a familiar but unexpected voice called quietly from the door. “Lambert?”

He lifted his head from where he’d been dozing on the bed, and blinked at the bright blue eyes and meticulously styled blonde hair of his ex-wife. “Kiera?”

She smiled gently, but hovered awkwardly at the door. “May I come in?”

“Uh,” Lambert sat up. “Sure, yeah—sorry, I didn’t know—.”

“It’s fine, I’m sorry, I should’ve called ahead, but I was worried that—,” she trailed off as she walked around the otherside of the bed and pulled over one of the temporary plastic chairs; they’d been intermittently occupied by either Geralt or Eskel for the last few days, and it felt strange to gaze across the bed and see Keira sitting there now. “The children are desperate to see you both. They’ve asked me hundreds of questions, and I’ve done my best to reassure them, but I think they need to see that you’re both okay. Mason had a nightmare that Aiden was dead, Zoe’s worried you’re crying.”

Lambert nodded. “But you wanted to make sure there weren’t any limbs hanging off before you brought them in, that’s fair.”

She made the face she always did when Lambert was horrendously blunt. “Well, partly, but also to ask whether it would be okay. I wasn’t sure what state _you’d_ be in either, whether having them here would just make it harder,” she sighed, her gaze wandering back up to Aiden’s face. “Have the doctors given any idea when he might wake up?”

“No, they said he’ll do it in his own time,” Lambert smirked. “Knowing Aiden, he’s already scheduled it in his diary and won’t open his eyes a single second earlier. Running through case files in his mind or some shit.”

Kiera smiled brightly and Lambert was rather taken aback by it. Sometimes he forgot just how radiantly gorgeous she was; he’d fallen in love with that smile. It made her entire face light up. She leaned back in her chair, hands folded in her lap. “Hmm, he’s the perfect counterweight to your chaos, isn’t he?” She paused. “I’m glad. It’s good to see you happy again, and I’m—I’m so sorry this has happened. He doesn’t deserve it, and neither do you.” The smile faded. Her gaze dropped.

There was that heavy silence weighted on either side by respective guilt and regret. “No one deserves this crap,” Lambert murmured finally. “Sometimes it just happens. And you’ve got to work through it the best you can. Thanks for, uh, still offerin’ to let me see the kids, I wouldn’t blame you if you’d—.”

“Lambert, _no,_ ” Kiera said sharply, and then rubbed her eyes, taking a breath to bring her voice level again. “Those days—that time—it’s over. They deserve you, and you deserve them, I was—I made poor choices, but at the time, I—.”

“You were a heavily pregnant young woman whose husband had been replaced by this shitty, unpredictable asshole. Said asshole looked dangerously like his father in how he was behaving too, and we both know how that turned out. You were protecting your babies,” Lambert finished for her and she looked at him, startled. “I don’t blame you. I’m—fuck, I’m grateful. I could’ve—the _damage_ I could’ve done.” 

“You’re not him, Lambert,” she murmured, and reached out. Her hand hesitated in the air above his hand, and then finally settled over the top. “You’re not. And I should’ve _known_ that.” She squeezed his hand lightly, and then smiled when his fingers curled around hers in return. They could play the blame game all day, but they’d just continue moving around in circles. “They’re _our_ babies. Aiden’s too. And they need us all there to raise them.” She sat back, leaving his hand to rest on Aiden’s knee. “And bloody hell, I need the back up. Zoe’s like a smaller version of you, and sometimes I’m _way_ out of my depth.”

“Yeah? What do you think it’s like when they give me The Look? Your look. Mason called me _cringe_ in your exact voice.”

She gasped. “Well, now you’ve reached peak Dad. Cringe is a prestigious accolade.”

They sat together for a little while longer. The silence was lighter now. The guilt, the regret; it was all years’ thick and would take time to chip away, but they’d just removed a huge chunk of it and were happy to bask in the light that filtered through. When she left, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to Aiden’s cheek, and then Lambert’s as she walked by. When she straightened, she looked a little fretful, but Lambert just smirked. “Now, I know you’re into the suited, professional type these days, but—.”

“Oh, shut up,” she huffed, thumped him lightly on the shoulder, and then her expression softened. “I’ll bring them round for a bit tomorrow, but I want you to get out of this room and take them for some food. Eskel, or Geralt, they can guard Aiden for an hour or so.”

“Yeah,” Lambert nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

Kiera left more in her wake than she probably realised. _You’re not him._ If Lambert pursued revenge in the way he desired, then wasn’t he just proving the opposite? Albert Murphy took eye for an eye, blood for blood, because it was a personal affront. He couldn’t give two shits about his family. It was about image and pride. _Lambert_ Murphy needed to make sure he had his motives and agenda in the right order.

***

The children both cried when they saw Aiden. Even without the plethora of tubes and wires that had surrounded him previously, he still looked sunken and small in the centre of the bed. They were used to a bright, lively man who was quick to engage with their mischief and buy ice creams. Zoe went first, her lower lip quivering when she called him but he didn’t wake up, and Mason went after a bit of ‘manly’ sniffling in an attempt to ‘stay strong’ for his dad and sister. Lambert pulled them both into his lap and held them close, their heads tucked under his chin as they sobbed. It took every shred of emotional fortitude he had to his name to not cry with them. 

“Daddy, Aiden’s gonna’ come back, isn’t he?” Zoe stuttered, finally lifting her head from his shoulder.

“Yes, pumpkin. He is,” Lambert murmured, one hand still rubbing over Mason’s back where he continued to sniffle and pant through quiet sobs. “He just needs a bit longer to sleep.”

“Yeah,” she sat up further and looked at him properly. “He says we grow in our sleep, s’why we have to go to bed on time. Is he growing stuff back?”

“That’s not how people work, Zoe,” Mason grumbled irritably, sitting up on Lambert’s other leg and rubbing the back of his wrist into his eyes. “He’s healing. They shot him, and—and—he nearly—.”

“Hey, bud, hey, c’mon now, look,” Lambert flicked his head towards the monitors. “He’s here. Not going anywhere. He promised you guys another trip to Cornwall, and Aiden doesn’t break his promises, does he?”

“No,” they said more or less in unison, and Lambert’s chest felt a little warm. 

“Right, so, as I said, he just needs to sleep a little longer,” Lambert adjusted, and then Zoe hopped off his lap to approach the side of the bed.

“Can I hold his hand, daddy?” 

“'Course, he’d like that,” Lambert wrapped his arm around Mason, who flopped back onto his chest. He was more sensitive than his sister and would probably hold Aiden’s hand, or give him a kiss on the cheek, in his own time, but not yet. And that was okay. _He needed to know that was okay._ Zoe tentatively took one of Aiden’s hands and patted it, her own little palm dwarfed in comparison.

“Hi, Aiden, it’s Zoe,” she informed him softly. “Daddy said you need more sleep, so that’s okay. And we can go to Cornwall later. Mummy took us to visit Virtute and she’s okay too. Her fur is growing back, and we gave her some Dreamies. The lady’s very nice. She has a big fat tabby cat, like the Tiger Who Came to Tea, and she let me play with him—.”

Zoe told Aiden about her last week as if they were sitting over the dinner table on a normal Thursday; Macey decided that Thomas was her boyfriend, then she dumped him the next day because he said ‘Hey Duggee’ was for babies. Eskel appeared in the doorway and Mason left Lambert’s lap long enough to give him a hug before retrieving his coat. With Eskel taking over on the Aiden vigil, Lambert took Zoe and Mason to the Frankie and Benny’s across the road from the hospital—meatballs, calzone and astonishingly sugary desserts all around—and for a brief moment he could breathe. 

For the last few days, Lambert had existed in a vacuum. Every waking moment occupied by thoughts of _what if._ What if Aiden didn’t wake up? What if Lambert had lost him by not being forceful enough? What if—? It was suffocating. In the fresh air and then the restaurant, with the dodgy sixties music playing in the background, he found it far easier to put it in perspective. The doctors were all positive. His family were here. Everything would fall back into place.

There was just… _one loose end._

As he watched his two cubs slurp down their spaghetti and colour in outline pages with the crayons provided by the restaurant, he knew his earlier misgivings would come to nought. Someone had hurt his partner, threatened his children, and now thought they were going to get away without doing penance. They were _sorely_ mistaken.

***

Rather than return to Cambridge and leave Lambert to brood alone in the dark, Eskel, Geralt and Jaskier had all pretty much moved into the flat. Even Roach had been driven down to join them, and was rather enamoured with the view from the huge windows that made up the outside wall of the flat. She sat undisturbed for hours lording it over the traffic and people below, her floppy ears perked forward, huge paws gathered before her. Step aside, Lizzie, Queen Roach was in town.

Lambert insisted on staying at the hospital. Convinced that Aiden would wake while he was away and panic, he wanted to be there at all times. He _needed_ to be there. 

One afternoon, Jan arrived; Aiden’s mother. She’d been held up at the airport having arrived home from some missionary work abroad. As soon as Lambert called to tell her what happened—when he’d done that, he couldn’t even fucking remember—she’d booked the first flight back. Practical and no-nonsense, she bustled in, checked all Aiden’s charts and the records of care, before finally leaning over to place a kiss upon his forehead. The tension coiled in her shoulders and back eased. Her baby was as safe as he could be. Now that she was assured of Aiden’s health, she turned those stern green eyes onto Lambert. The same green as her son’s. “You look awful.”

Lambert—who had always been thoroughly intimidated by Mrs Taylor, with her petite, trim physique; firm, unsmiling face and jet black hair—almost stood to attention, his hands down by his sides. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You know how Aiden feels about you taking appropriate care of yourself,” she dropped a hand to hold one of the inert ones resting on the bed. “Go home. Sleep. Eat. Shower. If you return inside of eight hours, I will be most unhappy.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but her eyes narrowed as her free hand stroked over Aiden’s hair, and he reached to take his coat. Before he left, he leaned over and pressed his nose to the side of Aiden’s face with a deep, shuddering sigh.

“Lambert,” Jan spoke softly. “I’ll watch over him. Go make yourself presentable for when he wakes.” They were a private family. It had always been just the two of them, and although she was fastidious in giving Aiden his space and freedom, she would always be at his side in times of hardship. She had been six years ago when he’d had to piece his life back together after the car accident, and now she would be there for both of them as he recovered from this.

Returning to the flat meant comfortable bed, food that wasn’t a pre-packaged supermarket sandwich and a hot shower. It also gave him an opportunity to pour over the documents Geralt had unearthed. Lambert worked out quickly that they were from the archive in Aiden’s officers, and he recognised the letters as _identical_ to the ones he used to make as a child. The date of the final one made his blood run cold. _The day of the car accident._ It didn’t take him long to follow the same lines of reasoning as Aiden had upon discovering it. _And they’d decided to finish the job_ — _why now?_

“I thought you’d been sent home to sleep,” Jaskier had let himself in the front door—Lambert hadn’t even heard—and now closed it softly behind him. He had an overnight bag slung over his shoulder, and his guitar case in one hand. 

“Not tired,” Lambert lied, and shuffled the documents together. Eskel was out shopping for food, and Geralt had met Ciri and Yen in town for lunch. 

“Okay,” Jaskier murmured; he knew better than to argue. Bag left by the big bed on its raised plinth, he slumped down on the other end of the couch with a sigh. “How’s Aiden looking today?”

“The same. Everything’s stable, he’s just… not waking up.”

“You always said he runs on his own schedule—oh, Eskel dropped by your house to pick up some mail, check everything was secure,” Jaskier leaned forward to grab the stack of white envelopes on the coffee table. “Few bills, and bits and pieces. This one, umm, it looks wedding related, do you want me to go and put it away for later?”

“No, it’s—,” Lambert took the pile and held it over his lap. “ _Fuck,_ we were meant to book a visit with the caterer, and then there was another venue he wanted to go and see. He was dead fucking certain we were going to miss the booking.”

“There are always more venues, more caterers.”

“Yeah, but he wants it to be perfect,” Lambert sighed. The reminder of the wedding was a gut punch he didn’t expect. His mind immediately cottoning on to a spiralling train of thought; if he didn’t survive, if he wasn’t well enough, if—if—. “To be honest, I’ve not exactly been… helpful. He’s done most of the work. I just… say yes, or no, and… he asked me to pick a fucking song for our first dance, and I made it into a joke. It means so much to him, and I couldn’t even take that seriously—.”

“If I may,” Jaskier leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “I don’t think the wedding itself is what he wants to get right, and if it is, it’s definitely not for him.” When Lambert looked at him with a perplexed scowl, he sighed. “It’s for you. He wants it to be right for you. Bloody hell, why do you think he asked you to choose the _song_ ? He knows how much you love music, how much it’d mean to you to have the _perfect_ track. It’s something you both share—I mean, when we were waiting for Eskel to return home, watching you bicker over the stereo system was… well, it was adorable. And the way he looked at you when you serenaded us in the garden. That look of adoration was like something out of a Neruda epic.”

Lambert didn’t respond immediately. He stared at one of the golden edged envelopes from a wedding planner and allowed it to sink in. Yes. Aiden had asked Lambert to pick everything he believed Lambert valued; the music, the caterer, the photographer. “I wanted to have it on the coast, with the sand, and the sea. I know he does too—just like when he proposed—but he’s so worried about the _politics_ of it. The shareholders, and all that bullshit. Sometimes I think he’s torn between being Aiden, and being Mr Taylor.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier leaned down and unclipped the buckles of his guitar case. “Life’s too short, you should do what pleases you, while you still can.” Slender fingers plucked at the guitar strings while he tweaked the tuning pegs. If anything threw life into sharp relief, it was seeing a dear friend—a lover, a family member—nearly lose theirs. “There’s one song I’ve always associated with you two, ever since you first got together. And _no_ , it’s not Ravenscode. As lovely as that was.”

“Hm. If it’s ‘I Wanna’ Break Free’ or some shit, I’m gonna’ knock you out, buttercup,” Lambert folded his arms and leaned back against the arm of the couch. “Go on then. Let’s hear it.” 

“Forgive me, I’m a little croaky, out of practice. And this is meant to have one helluva backing band to it,” Jaskier cleared his throat and began to pluck through the first few notes. _“_ _This is all I am, and all I know. To speak in the midst of the silence, and listen to the places that I've been. And where I'll go with your hand taking mine, and all of what you made of the memories, I'll never let you go.”_ He struck into chords, and broke into the chorus. _“I am the strong, I am the brave, I am the scar, I am the pain, and I will fight by your side until we're home. You're not alone.”_

Lambert listened and felt the pressure rise behind his eyes. It was perfect. As Jaskier wound through the next verse, and then the stylised choruses to the end, Lambert had to rub his eyes to cover the—yeah, they were fucking tears, alright? The final note faded into the quiet of the flat and Jaskier looked at him expectantly. _Oh, he could see the emotion, couldn’t he? Smug little fuck._ “Yeah, not bad.” Lambert tried to sniff away the tears.

“Perhaps you should see what he thinks? Play it to him in the hospital. If he hates it, I’m sure he’ll wake up and tell you,” Jaskier grinned, and then moved to stand. _Time for a coffee and some lunch…_

“Jaskier,” Lambert called him back. “Look, I never—uh, I never said ‘thanks’ for setting me up that stupid fucking profile, and making sure I looked half presentable on the first date, and… that was pretty good of you, you know, since I’d been less than… nice, before.”

“Oof, that sounded painful,” Jaskier planted his hands on his hips, blue eyes alight.

“Agony, yeah,” Lambert cleared his throat as he stood.

“Well, you’re welcome. Besides, I needed to get rid of you somehow,” Jaskier turned back towards the kitchen. “Needed the spare room for my sex dungeon.” He could feel the breadth of Lambert’s smirk against the back of his head. They didn’t speak more than a few odd words here and there for the rest of the afternoon; Lambert showered and fell asleep in the centre of the huge bed. Jaskier didn’t comment when he found one of Aiden’s shirts to hold as he slept, his face buried away in the material so that he could be close to his partner even in his dreams.

That evening Lambert returned to the hospital, and Jaskier insisted he took the guitar with him. It felt so fucking stupid. Jan raised her eyebrow, but didn’t comment as she left to grab herself a coffee. Aiden looked the same as he had when Lambert left that morning. Peaceful, comfortable, but still very much lost in his dreams. “Hey,” Lambert said softly. “Jaskier and I had a crack at the song. Thought that Swallow probably wasn’t the vibe you were going for. I, uh, look I know you’re probably swanning around in Dubai in your head right now, but I’m gonna’ play it for you anyway, alright?” 

With his ear for music, it hadn’t taken long for Lambert to pick up the song. He vaguely remembered it from somewhere anyway. His fingers felt stiff on the fretboard, and he missed a couple of notes as he played through the first verse. By the chorus, everything was feeling a little looser. _“_ _Even through the rain and fading night, remember every word that you told me, sing it out loud, whisper it slowly, just hold on 'cause daybreak is on its way, we used to run from all of our shadows, and now we're here to stay,”_ he knew it was stupid, knew the nurses probably thought he was a nutcase, but it was making him feel better. The feel of the guitar across his lap, the cadence of his own voice as he hit every note perfectly, _“I am the strong, I am the brave, I am the scar, I am the p_ _—_ Aiden?"

A new noise. The flare of the machines monitoring him. Alarms, high-pitched squeals, _Aiden choking._ “Someone—someone, help!” The guitar fell to the floor with a loud clang—another dent to accompany the many Jaskier’s poor old instrument already had—as Lambert threw himself from the chair.

Because he hadn’t noticed soft green eyes opening as he strummed through the second verse, the twitch of fingers bound loosely in wires. The moment of peace had been fleeting, because as soon as Aiden’s senses all crowded back in his throat realised it had a problem. _The tube._ Nurses rushed in and Lambert staggered out of their way as they worked on relieving Aiden’s distress; they removed the tube, applied a light sedative to calm his panic, and checked his thrashing—as weak as it’d been—hadn’t torn open his side.

It happened in a whirlwind of motion and Lambert stood by the window shaking, desperate to throw himself over Aiden; blanket him, cover him, protect him from any and all harm. When the nurses were happy with Aiden’s condition, they allowed Lambert to feed him his first sips of water. Just a few. Not too much. He took it with a little bit of spluttering, but Lambert could feel the hand on his forearm tighten. _Back. Awake. Alive._

The nurses thinned out, and once the final one left with Aiden’s clipboard tucked under her arm, they sat staring at each other; brown eyes rimmed with tears, green eyes still soft and sleepy. Lambert helped Aiden drink a little more water, and then finally, when the soreness in his throat had abated enough. “I—.”

“Don’t talk, don’t hurt yourself, it’s alright—look, just take your time, I—,” Lambert stopped abruptly when he received a furrowed brow and a vague wave of the hand.

“Yes—,” Aiden tried again, paused, took a deep breath, and then tilted his head. _Determined,_ “—that one. That’s—the song.” Lambert choked out a sob—one of so fucking many over the last couple of weeks—and buried his face in Aiden’s hair. 

“Fuck, I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered.

“I’d never leave you like that, kitten,” Aiden replied, voice still cracked and hoarse. “I’d—fight God himself to stay at your side. In fact—," Aiden groaned quietly, the dull ache of his wounds breaking through the pain medication, "—I think I may have already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Lambert sing "The Strong" by Eva Under Fire.


	19. Beautiful, Kitten [Art - NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You look so beautiful, kitten."
> 
> New chapter almost done. It's Christmas break, wooh!

* * *

**Beautiful fanart gifted by the talented Ana.**  
Twitter: [@anakoudo](https://twitter.com/anakudou)  
Instagram: [artbyanajs](https://www.instagram.com/artbyanajs/?hl=de)  
_**Thank you so much! I adore it.** _

* * *


	20. One More Light

Aiden didn’t take the news of his lost kidney well. Both Jan and Lambert stood at his side as the surgeon talked him through the procedure that had saved his life. He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, fingers plucking at the bandages wrapped around his torso, only to have them stilled by a gentle touch from his mother. Lambert could see the redness around his eyes and the way he gnawed on his lip until his teeth threatened to break the skin, and smoothed a hand through his hair. “You’re still here, that’s all that matters.”

“Yes,” Aiden croaked, but he didn’t sound convinced. When you were feeling vulnerable—in pain—it was sometimes difficult to see the positive, and Lambert watched Aiden physically droop when they talked him through the physio and recovery process. Recovery. _Again._ It’d taken him all this time to build back up to the man he wanted to be, and now he was back to square one. Or felt so, at least. 

He had trouble sleeping, grumbling that he’d already slept enough, but Lambert knew he was worrying. Worrying about being present for the company, worrying about the wedding, worrying about the pain that twinged through his entire body every time he moved. There were still occasions when he felt discomfort in the scars on his side, and now there would be another to join their number. Not only that, but he felt _useless._ Aiden didn’t _do_ useless, vulnerable or weak. It threatened to drag him right back into the dark space he’d fallen into following the car accident.

It only got worse when the police arrived to take his statement. He didn’t have much more to tell them than his security already had. They had the would-be assassin in custody; a Mr Leo Hammond. He had a record as long as the St James’ bible and they were currently tapping up all of his known affiliates. Lambert was nearby. He gave the name to Geralt.

There was only one honorary family member—fluffy, grey, far too overweight—that might bring some comfort. A reminder that he did it once, and he would do it again. It took a little bit of negotiation with the hospital staff and assurances that she was essentially just a semi-mobile stuffed toy, but soon Virtute was arriving in her cat carrier. She yowled and huffed at Lambert in irritation for the majority of the journey but, the moment she heard Aiden greet Lambert, the entire carrier began to vibrate.

Aiden’s eyes widened in delight. “Virtute?”

_Mrow. Brrr-ow._

Lambert set the wicker carrier down on the end of the bed once he’d secured the door behind him, popped open the mesh front and unleashed their plump feline unto the world. Rather than dart out across the floor, she tentatively extended a paw out onto the bedding, big yellow eyes blown wide as she saw her destination: _Aiden_. Her one true love. Not even the lovely tomcat that lived three doors down was higher in her favour.

Her desire to cuddle him after so long apart clearly overcame her fear of the unknown, because in the next moment she trotted out of the basket, hunkered low, and rubbed up against his waiting hands. She tried to climb onto his stomach—her usual place when he was reclined—and required a little guidance to avoid his wound. Eventually, she settled on his chest, tail flicking across his face, eyes blinking _very slowly_ , purring so loudly that she drowned out some of the machines.

“Thank you,” Aiden stuttered, hands buried in her newly regrown fluff. Lambert grinned, leaned over and kissed slightly parched lips.

“You’re all good. She’s a bit more experienced with this kinda’ thing than me.”

Aiden reached out and took Lambert’s wrist as he withdrew. “I—no, I need you too.”

Lambert slid his hand over grasping fingers before bringing them to his lips. “Yeah, I know, and I’m here, but I need to go do some chores. Bills to pay, phone calls to make. Kiera’s bringing the kids ‘round again, and Eskel will take Virtute home in an hour or so, alright?”

“I’m sorry I can’t help,” Aiden deflated. “I—.”

“Don’t do that,” Lambert said, smoothing a hand through Aiden’s hair; it was fluffier than usual, in need of a cut to return it to its usual impeccable style. When Aiden looked at him in confusion, he stroked his thumb across a slightly arched brow. “You look after me every day—fuck, you looked after all of us when Eskel was sick. You need to let us look after you for a bit. We want to. It means a lot.”

Usually so articulate, Aiden struggled to find the words now. His mouth opened twice, but closed each time, and in the end he simply flushed. Lambert stayed with him as he settled back against his pillows, his hands gradually falling still as he slipped into a restful snooze. “Be good,” Lambert said to Virtute, scratching her gently between the ears. She wouldn’t leave Aiden willingly, so Lambert knew it was safe to leave her free of the cat carrier until Eskel arrived.

Geralt was waiting for him in the car park in Aiden’s Audi. The engine was running by the time Lambert dropped into the driving seat and he passed over a pre-packaged sandwich he’d picked up from the BP garage on his way. There were shopping bags on the back seat and Lambert swivelled to get a better look. “You’ve been busy,” he grabbed the first, and peered inside quizzically. “A mug?”

“It’s Eskel’s viva voce today,” Geralt murmured, his eyes on the road as they pulled out of the car park. “Jaskier put me in charge of the present. He said lighthearted and fun. We’re going to get him something more sentimental for his graduation.”

The bag rustled as Lambert worked the mug free, and then he snorted. “Don’t panic, I’m a doctor. Geralt, this is… uh,” he glanced over, and then heaved a sigh. “You know what, he’s gonna’ fucking love it. It’s Eskel. You could have taken a shit in a box and he’d gush over it.”

“Hm,” Geralt raised an eyebrow and decided not to mention the boxer shorts he’d got that said ‘Doctor of Lick-rature’ on them; he’d been very drunk at the time of purchase. He and Jaskier had powered through at least three bottles of red wine between them and Geralt’s credit card had a large limit. The joke had sustained them right up until the hangover the following morning. No, best move onto safer ground. “The majority of the assassins’ affiliates are already in jail. They’re serving life sentences with no hope of parole. One or two fled the country to avoid prosecution. A few in Spain, one or two have gone further afield. The UK has extradition treaties with them all and they were tried in their absence.”

“Which means if they so much as step a toe on British soil, they’re banged up for life,” Lambert murmured as they headed out onto the north circular. “How the fuck do you know all this?”

“Not everyone retires to a farm,” Geralt replied and then sighed when Lambert raised an eyebrow; he’d learned over the years that this was either calling bullshit or searching for additional information. “I have friends in the appropriate places. When I told them what happened, they were eager to help.”

“Yeah, they always are when it’s convenient.”

The comment just _sat_ there. 

Geralt stared out at the road, his hands tight on the wheel and Lambert let bitterness stew. Friends in appropriate places had been strangely absent when he was floundering through a divorce; an alcoholic blocked from seeing his children, in and out of a custody suite while he descended into a spiral. The only one that had been there at all was Eskel, who was fighting his own beasts in the darkness. Geralt said nothing because he knew Lambert was right. _He fucking knew it._ People were only interested in the fixable clusterfucks with a clear redemption arc, because then they could pat themselves on the back for all the good they’d contributed. They left the ones that appeared beyond help to their fate; there was no back patting if it all went wrong. No one liked looking at someone and being reminded of their failure.

As the London skyline zoomed by and Geralt said nothing in the silence, Lambert sighed. “So, where are we heading then? Mop up the last of the bastards?”

“We’ve got a stop to make before that.”

“Where?”

“The prison infirmary,” Geralt cast a quick glance to his left; he watched Lambert ball up from the corner of his eye. “Your father reached out to his friends, just as you thought. Paid with what remained in an account that would’ve been left to you on his death. He has days left at this point. Cancer’s in its last stages.”

Lambert clenched his teeth. The surge of rage was a familiar sensation; hot, chaotic and bloodthirsty. His hands balled into fists on his thighs and Lambert swallowed it down. There was nothing to be achieved here; no victory, no vengeance. Karma was already doing Lambert’s work for him. It still didn’t feel like enough though. It still felt so fucking _hollow._ “Good - fucking - riddance. So there’s no one else? No wider conspiracy? Just some cunt with a gun helping out an old mate.”

“Old mob loyalties run deep,” Geralt murmured. “There’s one other still on the outside. Name’s Jad Karadin. Small time now. I’d imagine he was the one that provided the buffer between your father and the hit man; respectable and reformed on the surface. His calls are monitored.”

“So, fuck the old man,” Lambert snarled. “Let’s go straight to Karadin. I’m gonna’ rip his fucking head off.”

Geralt sighed, with a soft growl of frustration woven in at the end. “You’ve built yourself something good out of the ashes of what happened to us. Something… _better_ than anything you ever had before. Even when we served together, I could tell you weren’t quite complete. Like there was something missing. The kids came along and you,” Geralt paused, searching for the appropriate words; he was always so careful with them, “muted it. Settled.”

“Shit, I knew you were sentimental, but - .”

“Shut up and listen,” Geralt growled, and Lambert’s mouth audibly clicked as it closed. “What he did to you as a child is unforgivable, but what he just tried to do? To see you happy, out the other side, and then to try and take even _that._ I want him to look you in the eyes and see that his last powerplay didn’t work. He needs to die knowing.” _And you need to know._

Lambert hadn’t realised just how invested Geralt was in it all. He’d been on the periphery of Lambert and Aiden’s relationship, but the more Lambert thought about it, the more this demand was completely… _predictable_. Aiden and Lambert were proof to Geralt that it was possible to have something good. That their life didn’t need to be shackled to, or shaped by, events of the past; they could grow and build beyond it. 

Not only that, but Aiden had been the quiet anchor in the background when Eskel was in hospital; he’d been there to guide Jaskier when he was flailing and believed he simply wasn’t good enough, and he’d pulled Lambert from the loop of self-destruction when even Eskel and Geralt had been powerless, entrenched in their own misery. Geralt respected Aiden. Cared for him in his own way. That was Geralt through and through though. Quietly caring. Fuck, _silently_ , sometimes. 

The rest of the drive to the prison passed in silence. They left the radio switched off and Lambert watched the landscape blur by; colourless, featureless. The prison itself was just as he remembered; bleak, grey and foreboding. This time though his hands didn’t shake as he dumped his wallet and keys in the plastic trays. The infirmary was mostly empty, with only a handful of inmates sitting up in bed. Albert wasn’t on a ward, but in his own room. “He’s not very responsive,” the nurse said as he flicked through his chart. “If he wakes, he won’t talk, but he can still hear you.” 

The oxygen tank wheezed, the machines beeped and the skeletal form lying in the centre of the bed barely looked human. Geralt stood just shy of the door as Lambert walked around the side. Albert’s skin looked like tissue paper; fragile, colourless. His eyes were half open, the whites yellowed and bloodshot, and the smell of death seeped out from beneath the heavy blankets. Lambert’s eyes dropped to the hand that rested outside the blankets, the letters of ‘fuck’ emblazoned across the knuckles, and he reflected on how weak they looked now. Those fists had broken more of his bones than any insurgent. Looking at the sorry figure before him, those memories felt more distant than ever before.

“Looks like the devil’s on his way, old man.” Those yellowed eyes were looking at him, but they didn’t seem focused; he continued anyway. “Just stopped by to let you know you didn’t take him. He’s alive. Not even a scratch,” Lambert leaned into Albert’s space, his knuckle braced on the bed, and hissed through his teeth. “I should fucking smother you with that pillow. I could kill you thirty different ways with just the equipment in this room. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? Somewhere in your sick head, even having me _murder_ you would be a victory, wouldn’t it? Because then I’d be a chip off the old block, wouldn’t I?” 

Those hazy eyes sharpened and flickered, and there was a quiet huff inside the oxygen mask. “Well, fuck you,” Lambert stood up slowly. “You lose.” He reached across slowly and pressed his fingers over the top of the misshapen claws resting on Albert’s shrunken chest. His hands, weathered and beaten, strong and alive, provided a stark contrast. Hands that had worked more on saving life than taking it - despite carrying a gun for most of his adult life - juxtaposed with a set that had only ever caused pain and suffering. Albert’s skin was cold, already devoid of life even though the man within it was still clinging on, and Lambert turned away with a dismissive grunt. “We’re done here.” 

Geralt followed at his shoulder in silence, but Lambert had never been more grateful to have him there. When they stepped out into the freshair of the car park, Lambert tilted his head back and inhaled until his chest burned with it. Geralt slapped him on the back. “Always were sensitive to smells with that massive nose of yours.”

Lambert’s mouth dropped open in mock offence. “Going to mock my scars next, pretty boy? _Fuck._ ” 

“Hm,” Geralt smirked, and they headed to the car.

It didn’t take them long to reach their second destination. A small set of offices on one of the many industrial estates in the outskirts of London. Geralt kept glancing across at Lambert, who stared down at the hands in his lap with a furrowed brow, clearly contemplating that last contrast he’d made. 

They left Eskel’s Audi parked several streets away and Geralt led Lambert down several back alleys to the office block. The fire exit was propped open with a crumbling brick so that poorly paid office drones could slip outside for a surreptitious smoke, and they were soon climbing up uncovered steel steps to another empty corridor. It was at this point Geralt was at a loss; he had a number - thirty-four - and an assurance that these were Jad’s working hours, but not much else. 

The hallway was silent and most of the offices that they walked past were empty, but fate had smiled on them - or frowned very fucking deeply on Jad - that day, because they found him in room thirty-four as expected. Geralt shouldered his way inside and circled the desk swiftly to shove their target back into his wheeled chair. When Jad began to pull a drawer open, Geralt slammed it shut on his fingers and hit him hard enough on the jaw to daze him.

Jad was an averagely built man; bearded, with short cut hair and shrewd blue eyes. As he walked inside, door closed quietly behind him, Lambert peered around the poorly lit office space. There was a partially packed case on a stained coffee table, with a passport and boarding passes stuffed into the half open pocket. “Heading somewhere nice?”

“Who the fuck - ?” Jad squinted at Lambert, upper lip quivering in anger, and realisation dawned once his brain recovered from its collision with his skull. _Or so it’d felt._ “Murphy.”

“Soon to be Taylor,” Lambert murmured, having just decided that was a title he wished to shed. “Not that you’re probably too happy to hear that. How much did the old man pay for you? Enough for your villa in Marbella?” 

“Look, I’m just the middle man, I put people in contact with other people.” Karadin winced as Geralt pushed the drawer onto his fingers, and then received another clout to the jaw as Lambert rounded the other side of the desk. The force tore his fingers free, leaving behind a few shreds of tattered skin. Jad didn’t have time to mourn the damage, because Lambert had him by the jaw as he leaned in close.

“Your _people_ nearly took my husband from me,” Lambert snarled into his face. He grabbed those bloodied fingers with his other hand and Jad cried out in pain. “And if they’d been successful, you’d already be dead.”

“Ahh - I’m - _fuck_ \- they’ve got the guy, Albert’s good as dead,” Jad seethed through clenched teeth. “I’m leavin’ town. For good. My family’s already out, look - ha-ahh.”

The Lambert of only two years ago would’ve ripped Jad’s throat out with his bare hands. Here was the man that had hired someone to threaten his babies, his ex-wife, _shoot_ the man that had dragged him from circling the drain of the abyss. He _deserved_ to die. He deserved to feel the pain he’d indirectly inflicted on Aiden, he -

Lambert’s eyes flickered up to Geralt, who was watching him intently. Geralt would back him up to hell and back. Whatever Lambert’s decision at that moment, Geralt would ensure they got out unscathed, and work hard to keep it that way. If they were caught, arrested, tried, they would both go to prison for a long time. But there was more at stake here than a murder investigation. More than seeing his son and daughter through plexiglass for the next thirty years, which was a horrific enough thought in itself.

_You’re not him._

Kiera had said it in that hospital room. With conviction. Eskel had said it. _Aiden_ had said it. And then Geralt had made sure he said it himself before they came here. The hospital visit hadn’t been a last ditch effort at closure; it’d been far more important than that. A reminder. So that Lambert could make his decision not simply in the throes of vengeful anger, but with a full perspective of what he stood to lose. His freedom. His children. His partner. _Himself._

“When are you leaving?” Lambert looked back to the man he still held by jaw and wounded hand.

“Tonight,” Jad wheezed, a single tear escaping the corner of his eye as blood leaked through the gaps in Lambert’s fingers. “On the red eye. Hammond will squeal. He’s got nothing to lose and he’s a petty bastard. Leticia’s, my wife; she’s waiting for me - ahh! Check the fucking papers.”

Geralt left the desk drawer now that Lambert had Jad in hand and approached the suitcase. The passport had four boarding passes in it and Geralt pulled them out. “Four names,” he murmured. “Roland?”

“Yeah - hng, that’s me, that’s - the name I go by outside of this shit,” Jad muttered through Lambert’s grip. 

“Leticia, two male names.” 

“My sons,” Jad hissed, and Lambert’s grip on his face loosened. 

“Sons,” Lambert repeated. Geralt chucked the passports on the case and returned to the desk drawer. He opened it only long enough to pull out the loaded revolver Jad had reached for upon their arrival, and pat around the desk for any further weapons. Lambert continued. “How old?”

“Six and twelve,” Jad rotated his jaw as Lambert’s hand dropped away. “Adopted. Never had any of my own. Leticia’s ex was a - well, he wasn't the nicest bloke. Locked up forever now. We… we’re gonna’ start a new life.” As they talked, Geralt was busy rummaging through other drawers. There was no desktop PC, only a battered old laptop, which he closed and tucked beneath his arm. In a time with cloud storage and other such technological niceties, it was hardly the end of the information trail, but it would be enough for his former colleagues to get started. They had to be sure Hammond, Albert and Jad were the only ones with information on Lambert’s family.

Lambert’s gaze fell to the revolver in Geralt’s hands and he realised now was the moment to decide. If Aiden had been dead - if _everything_ had been snatched away - not even the thought of his children would’ve prevented him from taking that gun and pulling the trigger. Without Aiden, he’d lose them anyway; the man of _before_ was beyond reason. A raw nerve that exploded in pain at the slightest provocation. After that, there’d be nothing stopping him slipping back into the darkness. But Aiden was alive - wounded, in need of patience and care - but _alive._ And waiting. 

“It’s your lucky day, Karadin,” Lambert released his bloodied hand and watched as Jad held it to his chest with gritted teeth. “Leave town. For good. If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you. And trust me when I say, there won’t be a body for Leticia to bury.” He flicked his jaw at Geralt and they left the office behind. 

Once they were back in the Audi, they moved it a touch closer to the office block and watched as Jad left the block barely half an hour later. His hand was wrapped scruffily in a bandage from one of the temporary first aid kits stored in all workspaces. “Think he’s lying?” Geralt asked quietly.

“No,” Lambert shook his head. “When he talked about his sons - his wife - he had this look. Same one you wear when you talk about Ciri, same one I have when I’m talking about Mason and Zoe.”

“Hm,” Geralt turned on the engine.

“What?” Lambert glowered, his upper lip twitching. “If you say you’re proud of me or some shit, I’m gonna’ use that revolver on that sorry fucking mug. ‘Don’t panic, I’m a doctor’, what the fuck were you thinking?”

“I thought it was witty." They left the office block behind.

Later, Geralt gave a weary Eskel the mug, who loved it immediately and made his first cup of tea in it that very evening.

***

It took Aiden a couple of weeks to start walking again. He pushed himself too far several times but Lambert was there to catch him, smooth back his sweat-soaked hair and kiss away the scowl of irritation. It was a level of support Aiden hadn’t had the last time; a lover there that still looked at him as if he were the most cherished thing on the planet, despite being so damn _useless_ to it. The reassurances, the gentle caresses, the shoulder to sob into when he was overwhelmed with frustration; it made the whole process a little easier.

They let him out of the hospital once he’d seen to his ablutions independently, and Jan moved in with them for a few days to make sure Lambert was up to the task of keeping the wound clean, Aiden fed and in high spirits. She was suitably impressed after the first day and only stuck around because she was rather fond of her soon-to-be son-in-law, and she’d nearly lost her bloody son a _second time_ to malicious criminals. They shared the burden of confiscating his phone and laptop whenever he worked for more than an hour at a time. Preventing a workaholic from working _at all_ was just cruel; they knew he needed a steady drip feed to keep him sane and focused on his recovery.

It was nice to have their space back again when she finally headed off back to London though, and their first evening together Lambert carried Aiden up the stairs in his arms, laying him down gently on their bed. The kiss they share was soft, ponderous, and Lambert drew back reluctantly to tug at Aiden’s waistband. “Lift your ass.”

“Urgh,” Aiden flopped back and squirmed out of his sweatpants. “You know, I think I could get used to this kind of silver service. Home cooked food, a handsome man at my beck and call.”

“I’ve always been at your beck and call,” Lambert smirked, and flicked Aiden’s thigh before kneeling on the bed to take his socks off. “Just usually there are handcuffs and a dragon-sized dildo involved.”

Aiden hummed, watching Lambert with more than innocent interest. When his lover looked up, it was at tented boxers and dark eyes. Lambert smirked and pulled Aiden’s cock down with his forefinger, his fingertip pushing through the damp spot in the soft cotton of his boxers, before leaving it to ping back up with a whistle through his teeth. “That’s the first one since you got home.”

“Quite difficult to cultivate the right mood when my mother’s talking about blood flow and physio every five minutes,” Aiden grumbled. The bandages made him feel hot all the time, so after the first week he’d stopped wearing a shirt; he laid there in just his boxer shorts and bandages, his erection prominent and needy. He watched Lambert kick off his own clothes and then shuffled eagerly as all that gorgeousness leaned over him on hands and knees. “Going to leave me to get blue balls, kitten?” 

“Well, you have been a very good boy,” Lambert smirked. “Doing your exercises, taking your meds, not grouching when we take your laptop away.”

Aiden’s eyes narrowed and Lambert delighted in the little bristle as he battled with his instinct to establish authority in the exchange. “But?”

“No squirming, no thrusting, you need to lay still, I’m not calling the old girl back because I busted your stitches while giving you head. I’d be off the fucking Christmas card list forever.” 

“Fine.” Aiden flopped dramatically. Well, as dramatically as he could without _tugging_ anything. All he had to do was lift his backside a second time so that Lambert could slide his boxers down, and then that magnificent mouth, with its shit-eating grin and clever tongue, was on him. It sucked down the thick vein beneath his shaft and laved deep kisses over his balls until he was moaning softly. The little flick of the tongue over his frenulum made his hips stutter a little, and Lambert tutted. Aiden was too desperate to retaliate. “Just… Lamb, _please._ ”

It’d been weeks. This was the first time Aiden had shown any interest at all, but now he _wanted_. Lambert ground his own hips into the bed with a deep moan that vibrated down the length of Aiden’s shaft, and then swallowed him to the root. The pulse of his throat made Aiden groan and sigh, one hand gripping in Lambert’s hair in search of purchase rather than control. An artisan with his throat, Lambert lulled Aiden’s orgasm out of him and stroked his thighs gently as he came. 

With his lover boneless, Lambert left briefly to grab a glass of water and returned to find him sprawled beneath the duvet. “Give me a moment.” Aiden murmured.

“No need, I’ll sort it out while you’re asleep; come in your hair, or something,” Lambert grinned at the light thump on his shoulder, and climbed in to curl against Aiden’s side. They couldn’t spoon like they were used to yet, but he could touch, stroke and kiss to his heart’s content. “I’ve been thinking about the wedding.”

“Uh huh,” Aiden’s head lolled over, eyes still hazy and unfocused. “What about it?”

“The first dance. You liked the song in the hospital, right?” 

“Mm. It was perfect.”

“It was Jaskier’s idea,” Lambert stroked his fingers through the ruffle of Aiden’s hair. “Said it reminded him of us. I, uh, thought it’d be… special for him to sing it. He’s the one that made me that stupid fucking profile, and sometimes I reckon he thinks I don’t like him.”

“You do call him a twink with a disparaging tone,” Aiden raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. I like the idea. His voice is lovely.”

Lambert’s face lit up and Aiden felt his heart swell with adoration. With a little bit of wriggling, he got a hand free and smoothed it through his lover’s hair. They didn’t talk with words anymore that night, but revelled in the private language of their love; soft kisses, tender strokes and, when Aiden’s mouth was dry in the night, Lambert left to get him a drink and some painkillers. 

***

“How’s Ciri doing?” Lambert turned to Geralt, who immediately set about straightening his tie for him. They were in matching grey suits, with a lemon yellow colour scheme for the rest. Eskel stood by the window with a glass of champagne in his hand, watching the other guests assemble on the outside seats.

“Well,” Geralt murmured, taking a moment to adjust the handkerchief and flower in Lambert’s pocket. “New medication is helping, and she’s really enjoying the athletics club we signed her up to.”

“And you?”

"Getting there," Geralt patted him on the side of the jaw. “Stop misdirecting.”

Eskel turned. “Anyone’d think you were nervous.”

“Yeah, well, this is the second fucking time I’ve done this and it… yeah, just… let me flap, alright?” Lambert turned back to the mirror and dipped his head as he checked his hair. “Please tell me one of you reprobates has the rings.”

“Dr Cirillo was put in charge of those,” Geralt purred, using the easy opportunity to exercise Eskel’s new title. He was becoming more comfortable with it now that it didn't necessarily mean the end of his time at the university; the old professor was retiring in the next academic year, and who better to take over his role than the man that had been essentially performing it for the last year anyway? They needed to celebrate properly, but the wedding planning had overwhelmed everything in the last few weeks.

Aforementioned ‘doctor’ sighed and lifted the velvet box from his pocket. “Accounted for.” 

“Right,” Lambert nodded, adjusting his cuffs for the thousandth time. “That’s it then. This is it. It’s time. T-minus,” he checked his watch, “fifteen minutes. Everyone here? Keira, the kids?” 

Geralt rested two hands on Lambert’s shoulders. “Breathe. It’s all under control.” 

“Geralt, it’s _me,_ ” Lambert batted him away and strode towards the door. “Nothing’s ever under control.”

***

“You look so handsome,” Jaskier beamed over Aiden’s shoulder, necking another mouthful of champagne from the bottle. “The band’s all ready. We rehearsed a couple of times in the week. Your first dance is going to be - on. Point.” 

“Well, at least there’s that,” Aiden grinned as he plucked his own champagne flute from the dresser and gazed out of the huge, arched windows. They’d chosen a stately home on the coast. It was a happy compromise between Aiden’s need to entertain shareholders and Lambert’s desire to have an element of… them in the whole bloody thing. There was a sprawling estate behind them, replete with an eighteen hole golf course, and the house itself had been almost fully booked by guests that would be drinking long into the night.

It was the ocean beyond that held Aiden’s attention though. The waves lapped gently against golden sands and he thought of the honeymoon they’d booked in the Maldives for three weeks’ time. Just the two of them for fourteen days. “And you didn’t practice your vows?” Jaskier snapped him out of his daydream.

“No,” Aiden placed his drink down and smiled as his mother knocked, then walked briskly through the bedroom door. “I wanted to hear them in the moment. I know he asked Eskel to help, so I’m sure they’ll be perfect.” Lambert’s raw heart and Eskel’s refined vocabulary; they were going to knock him on his backside.

“Come, quickly,” Jan snapped her fingers and ushered the two of them towards the door. “We’re at risk of falling behind schedule.”

***

They stood together before the registrar and Aiden was certain the only thing that was keeping him standing was the shine in Lambert’s eyes. The sweat gathered under Aiden’s arms and he felt a tightness in his chest. The gaze of their collected family, friends and colleagues bore into him, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and run. Not from his kitten, but from _everything else_ . His sense of equilibrium hadn’t properly returned yet all these months later, perhaps they should’ve waited another year, perhaps they -. Lambert squeezed his fingers gently at just the right time. _He’d done this before._ Aiden just had to follow his lead.

“Now for the exchange of rings and the vows,” the registrar folded his hands before him, and Eskel appeared at Lambert’s side to perform his important duty of presenting the wedding rings. Lambert took Aiden’s carefully and lifted his left hand.

“So, uh, Eskel and I worked on this for a while, but I think I’ve got it down,” Lambert cleared his throat. “Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove, oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken; it is the star to every wand’ring bark, whose worth is unknown, although is height be taken.” From the little rumble at his back, Lambert knew he’d got it spot on. “I read so many fucking poems, Aiden. _So many._ Eskel said this one’s quite corny, but, uh, I liked it because it’s about the steadiness of true love and its ability to withstand raging storms. It’s about finding a safe port. Our entire relationship has happened in the middle of some storm or other, but you’ve always been my safe place. You’ve always grounded me, and shown me through the darkness. I want to be your port too, in every storm, I want to be your lighthouse. And, uh…” Lambert glanced over his shoulder at Eskel - _Care Bear was getting emotional, which was really unhelpful_ \- and finished pushing Aiden’s ring into place. “I love you.”

Every single word fell out of Aiden’s head. He’d spent hours going over it in the mirror. Jaskier had signed off on the whole thing as ‘simply exquisite’. Instead of struggling through to find his voice and his fastidiously rehearsed vows, Aiden flung himself into Lambert’s arms and jumped straight for the kiss. Such a thing was unprecedented - he was Mister Calm and Collected - but then he’d never had someone recite poetry as their bloody _wedding vows to him_ before. Rather than pull Aiden off, Lambert held his left hand behind him and Eskel put the ring on for them, and he _definitely_ wasn’t sniffling quietly as he did it.

The lunch was pleasant. Geralt was in charge of the speech - he and Eskel had divided the duties between them - and his dry sense of humour was a surprising hit with Aiden’s colleagues. He recounted anecdotes and delivered deadpan punchlines with professional precision, his face completely straight the entire time. When he sat down, Eskel hauled him over for a kiss and rested a calming hand on his chest. His heart was hammering and his eyes, with their beautiful tropical gleam, betrayed his anxiety. “You did really well.”

“Hm,” Geralt, who thought that public speaking was right up there with sprinting through live artillery fire, leaned into Eskel’s reassurance with a grateful rumble. Ciri waved from him from her table with Yen and gave two big thumbs up when he looked after. _Operation Speech was a success._

By the time the reception came around, everyone but Lambert was already pleasantly sozzled. The evening was close and the waiters threw open the glass doors leading to the wooden veranda, with the beach beyond. The sound and smell of the ocean washed through the warm fug of the hall, luring the wedding guests outside.

The band had set up outside in the warm summer’s evening, which meant the first dance could take place on the beach. Aiden was initially aghast at the thought of kicking off his shoes and socks, but when the others all sat down around him to take theirs off, he caved quickly. The prospect of dancing with Lambert beneath the stars overwhelmed any sense of propriety he wanted to maintain in front of his peers.

Jaskier stepped up on stage, twirling the mic through his fingers, and sat himself on a tall stool as the musicians around him checked the tuning of their instruments. When his lead guitarist gave him the nod, with Lambert and Aiden waiting at the edge of the dancefloor, Jaskier lifted the mic to his mouth. “Ladies and gentlemen, the first dance.” Skilled fingers picked out the first few notes, and Aiden tugged Lambert out onto the sand. _“This is all I am, and all I know…”_

Jaskier’s gaze swept over the assembled faces. The photographer was busy crouching, shimmying and angling for the perfect picture; the majority of the shareholders stood with bottles of beer and wine glasses to watch and Jan looked about ready to explode with pride. He didn’t stop searching until he found Eskel on the edge of the dancefloor, watching with the most adorable, wistful expression on his face. _On his own._ Now, Jaskier was a professional, so as he went through the first chorus he didn’t miss a single note as he glared across at Geralt. 

Geralt, who was casting the occasional furtive glance at Eskel, but otherwise standing rigidly several metres away. Thankfully, Ciri picked up on the exchange and proceeded to kick her father in the shin. “Oi, airhead,” she hissed.

“Ow, f - what?” 

She jutted her chin towards Eskel and then rolled her eyes when Geralt squinted, uncertain. “If you don’t ask him to dance right this second, I’m going to tell Mum about the motorcycle experience day.”

“You wouldn’t,” Geralt started, realised he was onto a loser here, and sighed as he looked back at Eskel. “You would.”

“I would,” she shoved him in the back. “Quick, for the next chorus.” 

Geralt straightened his tie, cleared his throat and stalked over like he was approaching an insubordinate squaddie. When Eskel looked up from the dance to greet him, he blinked in surprise. “Geralt, are you - ?”

“Dance,” Geralt blurted out, bit his tongue in annoyance, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ciri’s suggested that you might like to… dance.” 

Eskel flushed to the tips of his ears. “Well, I - ,” he looked back at Aiden and Lambert, who were so enamoured with each other that the rest of the world had simply faded to nothing, “- do you?”

Geralt hadn’t missed that longing look, nor was he completely immune to the thought of Eskel looking into _his_ eyes like that. And if Jaskier glared any harder at them, they would both combust. “Yes. I’d - yes.” Before he could change his mind, Geralt grabbed one of Eskel’s big hands and hauled him out onto the sand. After a subtle battle for the lead, Eskel swiped it decisively and Geralt settled his arms on those broad shoulders, eyes narrowed in promise of retaliation later. Jaskier beamed and, if it were even possible, increased his energy.

“Thank fuck,” Lambert whispered as they drew near. “Thought it was going to be awkward for a bit there.” They moved and Geralt relaxed in Eskel’s grip; big hands kneaded happily at his waist and those hazel eyes glistened with adoration. Eskel got emotional and affectionate after a few drinks - that was nothing new - and Geralt leaned up to kiss him several times as they circled around the two newlyweds. The whole day had been stressful for Geralt - lots of people, public speaking, required to appear mostly human - but Eskel and Jaskier had been there the whole time, offering reassurances at just the right moment. Eventually he rested his head on Eskel’s shoulder, hands dropping, and their ‘dance’ became more a swaying embrace as Geralt lost himself in his senses. Eskel’s cologne, his warmth, his arms; Jaskier’s voice, and the beaming smile Geralt could see through lidded eyes whenever they turned just right.

Others swept on in their wake, and Jaskier finished his triumphant number with a dance floor full of couples. Ciri accepted Mason’s coy offer and Zoe bounced around with a young man brought along by one of Aiden’s colleagues. There were other ‘formalities’ - Aiden decided to throw a silk tie rather than a garter, privately suggesting to Lambert that he’d prefer to have it _on_ his thigh later than anywhere else - and they’d gathered for the wedding photograph earlier when the sun was still high. Keira had even brought Virtute and Roach to the venue, and then returned them safely to their kennel and cattery respectively; her small contribution to make sure all of Lambert’s new family were accounted for. 

As the evening drew on and guests began to stumble up the elegant staircases to bed, Lambert sat in a camping chair on the beach with the others scattered around them. The owners had permitted a small fire, and it crackled gently in the coastal breeze as they gazed out across the creeping tide. Ciri crouched in the sound with Zoe building sandcastles, while Mason had gone to bed, stating that he’d got up _at least_ two hours earlier than Zoe which was why he was tired. 

After a little bit of schmoozing, Aiden had joined Eskel on the dancefloor for a rip-roaring rendition of ‘Livin’ la Vida Loca’, followed by ‘Let It Go’, soft rock version. Eskel held a champagne bottle aloft and drank from it periodically between dancing with Aiden, throwing dramatic shapes and striking outrageous poses. Lambert had never seen so much concentrated camp in one location in his entire life. They folded now that the Backstreet Boys had finished; Aiden slumped down at Lambert’s feet, and Eskel _fell_ on Jaskier and Geralt, who both yelped in surprise before smothering their huge oaf in appreciative kisses. 

“Backstreet’s back, alright,” Lambert smirked around the neck of his non-alcoholic beer as Aiden’s head flopped on his thigh. “You know, I directed the photographer to get some action shots. I’m framing them, with the lyrics of the songs underneath.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aiden grumbled. 

“Everybo-o-deh, yeah, rock your bo-o-o-deh, yeah, rock your bo-deh, right.”

“Shut up,” Aiden punched him lightly on the thigh. “It’s our secret.”

“Everyone and their mum saw you grinding on Eskel, Mr Taylor,” Lambert was most definitely _not_ letting this one go. “Huzzy.” 

“Wasn’t grinding,” Aiden glanced over Lambert’s lap at Eskel. “At my own bloody _wedding_ , unlikely.” 

“Hmm, agree to disagree. You know, I’m well within my rights to throw your cheatin’ ass in the sea.”

“I didn’t cheat,” Aiden sat up now, swayed backwards, only for Lambert to catch him by the tie and pull him into a kiss. “Mmm, I just thought of something.” He grinned that dopey, drunken grin that made his green eyes glitter.

“Mm?” Lambert stayed close, nibbling lightly on that pouty lower lip.

“You’re Mr Taylor, I’m Mr Taylor,” Aiden’s smile got somehow bigger. “I like the sound of that. We should totally just get married. Heard there are tax benefits.” 

“Oh, so you married me for tax benefits, not my dazzling personality, good to know,” Lambert chuckled and slumped back, planting his now empty bottle into the cup holder of the camping chair. 

“And your ass,” Aiden corrected. “In fact,” he cast a sly little glance at the children playing in the sand, and the heap of bodies that contained Geralt, Jaskier and Eskel as they lounged beneath the stars, “I’d like to inspect what’s mine a bit more… closer, closely. A bit more _closely._ ”

Lambert rolled his eyes as he stood, hauling Aiden up with him. “Fine. But you’re carrying me across the fucking threshold like a real man.”

“Yes!” 

Lambert stopped to kiss Zoe on the head before he left, paused to bid goodnight to Keira and a few others, and then stumbled up the stairs with Aiden. His side had healed well, but Lambert was still rather ginger about being scooped up in his lover’s arms. It didn’t help matters when his head collided with the doorframe as they entered the room, and it was ever so fucking romantic when his exhausted husband fell asleep facedown in his chest. 

With effort, he stripped Aiden’s suit from him and tucked him up in bed, with a tall pint glass of water on the nightstand nearby. Ahh, fuck it. They had their entire lives ahead of them, including a fortnight in the Maldives, during which Aiden had promised they’d be mostly sleeping during the day. The most important thing for Lambert was that he got to hold Aiden now as he slept, and would do so for many decades to come. He was the luckiest man alive.

* * *

* * *

**Artwork completed by the wonderful Sayuri.**  
Follow her on Twitter [here.](https://twitter.com/Sayuri527art)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went through several rewrites; in one, Lambert did kill Jad. In the end, I decided it best fit with his character arc that he _didn't_. The Lambert of the games has nothing when he commits that murder; the one good thing he'd made for himself had been snatched away. This Lambert has _everything_ to lose. So, I hope you understand the narrative choice there.
> 
> As with Scars, nothing's completely fixed. Geralt's on the road to recovery, engaging with therapy, but it'll take many years - and probably a number of set backs - for him to begin feeling whole again. Eskel has a potential career at the university ahead of him with its own strains, and we know that Jaskier will graduate and head off with MI5. But how will he cope being away from Eskel and Geralt? There are one-shots planned - more slice of life things, not full stories - so hopefully you're happy to stay tuned for those. Thanks for reading (and your patience).


End file.
